Posts Tagged ‘ The Trouble With Bartleby ’

onomatopoeia we are amoebic {an accumulation} 1.1.2013 / The Trouble with Bartleby

onomatopoeia

we are amoebic
{an accumulation}
1.1.2013
I gave birth as the only wholeness
was the totality of change
no matter what you should have your
hand cupped, ready for overflowing
there are more ways to be born
than there are ways to die
you can never be free
til you can be swallowed whole *
I dance the dance of doomed poets
You are now able to break the heart of language.
I am my own freakshow
drag my bones out to coney island
and make an example out of me *
making ourselves relevant to conifers *
my repugnant heart will make me conspicuous
on the train
flotsam from the world we were
and dirty
each day we spent living
mitochondria burned *
in this sea of free viscera I am grateful again to be removed, destroyed,
to disappear until I can only be everybody. every pair of ears is an embrace,
a love that doesn’t need to come towards me, a love that loves me more
by attending, with me, the many voices
 
I gloss what you gloss, a series of
camouflaged surrenders, the rest
is instrumental
the swans change a lot before they
discover gods they serve
fragmented exile is still exile
faith needs relish and a whisk
keeps us dishwasher safe *
new old forest infrastructure *
mnemetic melée
we are walking alone under the whirling stars *
 poets expect nothing and they usually get it
in spades
I’ve entrusted my fear to no one
summer suits us, dark as we are
and so prone to revelry
I have loved much less of the body that I have touched *
the saxophone is said to be the instrument
closest to the human voice – he takes
the tenor and gives us a poem, a poem, a poem, 
a poem; and all it takes is the wonderment 
of a small human, not yet as tall as its bell
to know that it speaks entire dictionaries
 
obsolete oppression
occupy with faith
what you faithfully denied
occupy the human
occupy fragility *
the message of the wind
the unceasing, timeless hymn *
poetry is your eros
a thousand pores filled with eyes like stars *
murder me a little
you who gathers me
like a radiant cherry
poetry will be your dress
when you give your mortal soul
back to its maker
it is impossible to pretend the self in possession of a certain skin when 
all these tongues and lungs, all these lips and mouths without reserve
taste you, spit and suck and breathe your secrets that not once 
have seen the page or felt the air on their necks

vicarious glamour fatigue *

crack in the wall *

wind of the god
blood sky

The Trouble with Bartleby.

Rhizomatic Audiocasting :: Liftoff ~ Exit Strata Is a Verb with Lynne Desilva-johnson & Company

This nearly hour-long video with Lynne Desilva-johnson & Company is broadcasting exponentially exciting, ideas including transparency, “life pack” bundles of technology and the arts vis-a-vis Robert Rauschenberg, integrity of independent, business-free social media, a re-visioning of  Mechanical Turk, safety and self-preservation in online communication, avant-garde collaboration . . . well, you get the picture.  ~ Donna Fleischer

Rhizomatic Intentcasting and Cocreative Support :: Live Broadcast with links, notes, minutes and intentions for modelling

paper.li ~ your own online newspaper

NAPOWRIMO DAY 23: Penelopeaid by Lynne DeSilva-Johnson / The Trouble With Bartleby

NAPOWRIMO DAY 23: Penelopeaid

As you leave,
it’s not so much the desire to kiss as much as
put mouth on, or
around; that
first and most direct desire to receive via 
– to nurse 
that it might sustain
in your absence.

Perhaps one might
take between lips
a fingertip, as though
it could stay behind;
a reminder, like
a marble or a small piece
of ice, leaving
my tongue recalling
you as it reads this
cool roundness, or
crevice, respectively.

There’s comfort in knowing how
a stone or piece of weathered wood
in the hand
can be the same – a surface to
trace and retrace, erased
of scalar dependencies:
a shoulderblade, a hip,
the hollow of your chest
when you exhale.

and all at once I was there 
at its origin; the first
to know and speak a word –
“touchstone” – 
a small solace 
to hold as you journey, to 
locate in an instant
your star
in the sky.

Lynne DeSilva-Johnson
The Trouble with Bartleby