readingjouga's posterous

three on their way [1]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:32:00 -0700

What do we wish to know?

Architect or mathematician,

cartographer, draughtsman, linguist, poet,

a name is given, as soon forgotten.

The giving is forgetting,

written in this,

the unspeakable beauty of snow,

brutal and sensuous, a language long ago.

The three men disagree.

Colors, depth, knowing thyself,

maps, the moon, the way words go round.

You wish all right.

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three on their way [2]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:32:00 -0700

Eagle!

Pictured three colors, two eyes to see depth,
self monitoring its movement.

The ocean!

Drew data, maps, distances,
the craters of the moon.

His ferocious appearance!

Recognized the plate tectonics of speech.

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three on their way [3]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:31:00 -0700

The circular darkness knows

what plunges in the heart is gone.

Inspired by your landscape, the given, forgotten,

its inexplicable softness and flexibility,

its radical inclination toward water,

toward zero gradient,

enlightened,

the eagle must fly,

no time to waste to no crow,

must fly

as it flies now, ferociously,

the length of heaven and hell, the ocean,

and back, and again,

many nights of breathing.

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bones in exile [1]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:17:00 -0700

Since you died I cannot sleep.

If I do, I meet you

in dreams and mugwort arrows,

three thousand darknesses

in this world of life.

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bones in exile [2]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:17:00 -0700

Elegance truly to be feared,

on the shore a single pine,

moonlit layers of rocky cliffs,

island, waste,

the delicate needles densely.

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bones in exile [3]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:16:00 -0700

When the east wind blows,

not plum.

Chrysanthemum.

Flew, withered, minister of the night.

I was nauseated and my horse ached.

I was exhausted and my words were weak.

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off and on [1]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:14:00 -0700

You find me

my heart again

on that island off the Atlantic.

Blissful island, the insects bugging you.

Mosquitoes?

Must be mosquitoes.

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off and on [2]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:13:00 -0700

Maybe the silences are

not about this,

not about that,

a grounding?

The empty set a truth of stone

to jump off from, walk freely,

sooner or later meaningfully.

There’s always that island

off the Atlantic.

Your heart can be found

again, yet, and indeed,

those mosquitoes are active.

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off and on [3]

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:12:00 -0700

I visited The Truth in April.
I said, look serious, and she did.

Drinks were offered.

Unreasonableness of the heart was measured

in the number of emptied vessels.

Blissfully wasted, off the Atlantic,

the island endeavored

thoroughly to become the mosquitoes.

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thinking thing

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 16:57:46 -0700

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abstract pleasure change [1]

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 19:17:00 -0700

The simplicity that is so

difficult to attain

dances around

the three.

A human ear?

Naked colors disagree, of course without a ripple,

right to the heart.

Cue for recall, recipe for thought,

hard, weird, and yet not

meaningless.

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abstract pleasure change [2]

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 19:16:00 -0700

Of course without a ripple

to the core.

It will be strange, and difficult,

and make sense?

The eye, leaky integration,

the mapping charting

the origin of language, female or feminine,

the homebound tuning curve

a comprehensive island paradigm,

without a ripple, it will be

necessary

departure logic.

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abstract pleasure change [3]

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 19:16:00 -0700

At this point I might

scream, I feel,

an inhibitory idea, to say

stop,

other word?

The simplicity that is so

necessary departure logic

dances around

the beginning of it all, your

leaky integration, my

homebound tuning curve.

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the engineer's truth [3]

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 17:07:11 -0700

If you can smell it, it rots.

The old refrigerator once more
leaked an undeniable puddle.

I hated your sense of timing,
your unfailing ability to launch a request

a few seconds before I would have
engaged,

by my own volition,

in the very wiping that now looked
like I performed it

in response to an instruction,

in compliance
with an order.

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the engineer's truth [2]

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 17:06:02 -0700

Hooded, mourned by none,
he disappeared instantly

into the gaping deep,

a terrible drop that nearly ripped
the sick head clean off

his unapologetic body.

The deformed hands dangled uselessly,
gnarled and fused directly to the wrists,

no longer an invitation for mockery or pity.

Cold, you wrote
to the parents of one of his victims.

Cough.

Throat.

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his doings

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 17:05:04 -0700

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the engineer's truth [1]

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 17:04:20 -0700

It is functioning, therefore it exists

to the back, turning,
axioms of choice,

inverse

diversification, reversible
universal,

savoring the series of wonderful
failures and prohibitive leaps

trustworthy, all of what is workable

where-hood and stay true,

the trust mechanism a sticking
with firsts.

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singing the body electric [3]

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 17:35:29 -0700

Said the monkey researcher,
these neurons, my code,

the tone elegiac and wasting time,
we swallow the color of betrayal,

think about our grandchildren,
how they are sure to suffer

from what we did and did not do.

Wishing we were better persons,

fact forges fiction the way
fiction fashions fact.

The thing is, though,
by the Critique of Practical Meltdown

we go
first and anyway, so

I might be right, we could be good.

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singing the body electric [2]

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 17:34:42 -0700

I really am awake, the monkey researcher,
see, pumping his fist.

I hope you remember some of what I wrote, my
Critique of Pure Death, he cawed,

meaning as ever,

reactions reagent.

A few moments later
he drove his truck into the crowd.

Produced a dagger, and proceeded to stab
the nearest shoppers.

Caught those that were slow to respond.

The worth of living? A word.

Not just any,
the perfect infinitive.

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singing the body electric [1]

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 17:33:42 -0700

Nuclear plants make you dizzy,
strangeness grows,

the purest heartlessness,
expressing opinions and human breast milk,

all kinds of lovely monsters and hardy appetites.

I have been awakened,
murmurs the monkey researcher,

slightly irritated, slightly irritable,

then snores
the song of the politically active

from Happy Hills to the Isle of Joy.

He really was an American poet.

That much he understood.

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