Byran, sage of the Jingle Jungle

it is a colored pencil.

2007-07-24T17:14:00.000-04:00

heyo, all.
been working on a new comic strip.
i call it, "ionpoem".

you can smell it
or if you print it out, you could manipulate it with your 'fingers'.

(here's one.)

(and another.)

double soluble

2006-12-12T17:52:00.000-05:00

...............

this morning i was thinking about apple-jacks.

it was a heart attack (on a plate) it was a fan and one arm, falling asleep, guess what the morning sunlight slowly bowling and slowing my blood down.

it was warm,
this morning.

this morning i was breathing the air.

bouncing, trouncing little speck and a fish-handled whip hammer and flick, whip and flick.

it was like the box of crayons or maybe the duster.

it spoke true to me,
and was.

this morning sought out the twelve truths gone past, far past.

someone thought they were winning, like it was a game, and someone died from the cold and they didn't have a house where their cat lived and the soda in the refridgerator.

talked about it.
people forgot about the half-turn and the brother surf. someone finished all the slowmotion categories, and we all pressed our buttons.

do you know how many
CAKE
there is??

...................%

hmmmm... haven't written on the 'ol blog for a REALLLLLLY long time. so, when somebody said, "hey, written on that blog recently?" to me, i said,
"dang. i should do that again."

THUS.

okay, so news, then. i'm playing in the Madison band, Chime Collective, a unit of genius sprung from the mind of Adam Gregory Pergament - we're brewing a distinctly different sound down here (or up here, depending on your attitude or geographic location) and i'm excited about it.

http://www.flowpoetry.com

wee haw... there's the website, kidos.

maybe i'll post again soon. for now, it's organic chemistry time.

loop dee

2006-03-27T23:24:00.000-05:00

this thing is pretty flibb.

it is pretty made of rib
* * * * * * bones.

so I like it.

(*It's all the states I've ever been!)

I am made of squirrelly toadstool map

If you click on that link that I mad html-crazed, you will go to a place where you can make your own one of these and laugh when you put it up on your blog because you need a break from looking at papers on high performance liquid chromatography techniques for assessing concentrations of nonpolar phloroglucinol derivatives.

Or whatever you do for fun.
(I think for sum, it's rum. But not I, as you see that I am definitely sharper than a tweedle-bug love-gun with both photosensitive diode arrays coiled and couched-out on the futon ready to send a gnarlish black boon of liquid-exude in your general direction, loverly.)

I am actually having a grand time typing this mush to you. (*laughs audiably in computer lab*)

so you should clap your hands?
so you should clap your hands? how 'bout a poem? (O. K.)

astoif

stood quite as.
it was light-night floating to.
stroke of the oar if.
croak from the shore as,
a cloud floating past to.
leap out lily lie if.
no,
crackling flame as.
an oar that is dipped to
a sugar
* * * * * wafer.

backspace, backspace, comma space, backspace...

2006-03-08T13:35:00.000-05:00

A short list of fractalized comments:

• The Pickney St. Block Party was fantastic - lots of good friends and fun, some not half-bad food and DEFINITLEY some FINE music. I definitley hope that the whole shindig goes down again next year. Chris Dols? The man.

• Not minding rain - we've gotta put in our committment for May flowers, I guess. It's cold, but rain always puts me in a good mood.

• I have once again migrated to the forever classic "shuffle" mode on I-tunes. Wait - is that John Popper sitting in with Béla Fleck and the Flecktones?!? I think so.

• Looking forward to returning to Eau Claire, actually, quite a lot. I'll miss the boys from SToNEFLoAT and the friends that stay here in Madison over the summer, but I am looking foward to seeing family and friends alike in the BIG EC. Three story tree forts, Wisconsin Bayou, bike rides.... weeding gardens all day in 88º heat? Oh, yeahhhhh....

that's pretty much that.

•¶§¶•

Now, I think some poetry would do the trick.
Yes, how about it?
this one's called
chronological continuity

step
six
involves
two crepé plates
mirror weep white glass
plates crisp steam bright mornings. mournings
flowering dull salt occurred maybe paper lantern bulb
drawn in wax crayon lumps compass needle a footstep beetle silhouetted stalk-bow
brace for impact and flashing light fact red right said don’t roll brother don’t you roll like that

we rode bus onion blow road dust coughing pink lung crust tennessee-or-bust roll up our sleeves airplaning all day where people must sprout sea seethes

[written 4/16/06] ®

hmmmmm... chewing on that. it's a little Fibonacci metering. yes.

<< the william taylor anamoly >>

hmmmmm

2006-03-04T17:25:00.000-05:00

kool aid
plant physiology
afternoon sun

hmmmmm
lightweight psychedelic rock music
one earplug, guitar pick.

eyelashes, sugar packets, sweat feet.

I kissed the pavement, dodged cars
slept on the couch and felt right.

( "marymargaretmollykathrineann" )

the dogron

2005-12-20T23:51:00.000-05:00

he flies upon the breeze he flies above the steam on the vent

he makes me laugh when I need to laugh

huh, wordddddds.

2005-12-20T21:13:00.000-05:00

Yes.

A poem. A poem, A POEM!!!!!!!!

I am feeling in my arms again.
Here we go:

I.

come with me down the
soda water of my spirit

a licorice
a stick of licorice
a slice of it
a licorice

the night called me deep
unfolding
it’s arms
oh why’d you have to open up the
door
that light IS like

come with me into the vaccum
crater 100 W. Lake St tone
and tone alike

I was born here
I lived here with my mother
father
hmmm… brother, yes
yes – ter – day the only flicker
cloud
scape up
above

take my hand
love me
a squeeze
SO TIGHT
I think it’s all over –
annihilation
of
the
self

trip and tumble down the hill
on our concrete toes
on our rubber platelet toes
yes
over time and grown between
the cracks that our feet are
flapping on
growing there and unblinking
unanswering
unbundled.

become the dawn
and see through it
become a speck
the speck
speckled of all things,
become.

take my hand
that in this night I
find another
that is the night
I find

upside down
upside

down

and very still, here

kiss me once

for
good
lucking
thrice
uhhh… yeah, 1968.

II. EXIT
EXIT
EXIT
EXIT
and blossom
in your branchings
touching together
scraping together
in the breeze

we are the coldest day in this winter
we are the breath
we take of crispness
of stately order
and translucence
we break
ice on a lake
and swell the crest
of the morning
on the oranges and violets
there.

I’ll admit that I would
trade it all for that
first breath
to be my entirety.

that I would,
the cloth
soaked
in splashing
mountain spring
and cascade one hundred and fifty four
feet in my embrace.

I’m a novice
at this penetrating thought
a rope looped
tricked-up like
the puzzle sewn
through shoulder blade –

black and white
a stately art
in squares
majestic
I am the line in the off-white
of the white I was before
the light changed,
never defined
always a constant

of rearranging.

In motion I am the play of the mountain
of the bird wings
of the thousand star sleep dust
that soots
the pavement up

HURRAH FOR THIS LIFE!

HURRAH for crazy scratching
hairy bark musk
and subtle lean scoop
shout frost beard
of us all!

I’ll be the first to cry for all of
our happiness.
Take my hand and we’ll weep together,
all
thrown up
silk in the breeze
cotton fibres on the breeze
dogwood bundles on the breeze
particles when someone sneeze
us out
we shout reverberating
us all we are
reverb er at ing
us all we are
dwelling us all
we are basking now all lawning now all

seeping and creaking
all
growing and stoning
ourselves all
with little bits of grass and
pebbles dusk
all
with our sacrifice we all
a scent transduced to be
all
of
us.

I would once more
to play at

obeah
my divining sticks
for pits and pictures
of the saints I saw
touching was I dreaming?

the garden is my home
for squashes
and the tomatoes
and bean poles
and raw glow sweat
dirt
that
I am.

2005-11-17T12:45:00.000-05:00

no bloody roast rat finger pencil undulation spruce jacket hilltop button blackout

2005-11-15T19:17:00.000-05:00

Let's all just all be one big community, okay?

This one is from the Noland Zoology Building. Look for the hidden member of the family Magnoliaceae!

Sounds good.

Now, about the Chemical Society (as I have had my poem of the same title returned to me):

•

western thought
a mind buzz
locus point
and shredder
(a paper shredder, that is, to say)

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
THROW OFF THOSE CHAINS!

awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww…
THROW OFF THOSE CHAINS!

(and) welcome to the Chemical Society
a nuance of sobriety
over-launched and stumbling.

let’s sit in a little warm room
and vacuum tube
inside outside (binnder)
outside outsind linder binder

come over here and blush on me
just a little bit, your poetry (I mean)
in little steaming droplets
on my leg –
a full round ringing of a bell

pepper and rose petals
elastic band
guitar smoke and a
laser

beam.

I am a single ball of warmth

amorphous and
without boundary
someone takes their hand
and smears it across the page

* snap back *

and vision blurs sharp to the
left side

a breeze on the mountainside
push me down the valley slopes
over rocks
and tufts of grass

I’ll be so gentle
you’ll never see me come
in hilarity
oh, laughing and creased
an old man with little crooked teeth.

I delight! (and never need to sleep again,
you see…)

breathing
a waterfall on the inside
throat bone connected
to blue sun magic flag

flapping behind a bicycle.

look at those leaves, man!
that’s sweet shit
you wouldn’t even believe ‘ it.

my eardrums, I can’t avoid the beat
bass drum thump
comb back the hair

a shrine made
from my rib bones
and some yellow string –

maybe red.

•

I really like it!
I really like it!

So, The Chemical Society is an organization of people who wish to use their brains, in short.
Together, we use the arts of meditation (brain chemicals) and moderate, intelligent external chemical use to expand our overall perceptions of the world.

It's juicy, I know.
Read the last post to join.
•

I would also like to point you in the direction of an excellent website, 391.org. It's the continuation of Tristan Tzara's original DADA magazine, first published in 1917, and a goddamn good time. Plus , I have artwork up on the photostream.

IT'S A DOUBLE WHAMMY!!!!!!!!!

awdrgyjilpawdrgyjilpawdrgyjilpawdrgy

2005-11-07T17:28:00.000-05:00

First and foremost, some wonderful brain food.

Like chum in the water, gather around, my neuron-shark piece people, asunder!

This one's called 'bilk'.

I have four midterms this week. That is probably the most wonderful thing ever.

Okay.
So, now that that's over with, let's have some right proper fun.

First off, a never ending poem. (*just for you, of course.)

one, three -
he placed his foot on the floor
one, four -
his foot on the floor
foot ON the FLOOR.

a shimmer flickered there
a
shining flickered
on the floor.

one, three -
he placed his foot on the floor
one, four -
his foot on the floor
foot ON the FLOOR.

a shimmer flickered there
a
shining flickered
on the floor.

one, three -
he placed his foot on the floor
one, four -
his foot on the floor
foot ON the FLOOR.

a shimmer flickered there
a
shining flickered
on the floor.

You can repeat it as you'd like, of course. I do it and clap my hands as I walk to class. (Not very loud, however - that would be rather odd. [*joke])

•∞•

Ok, here's a second poem (chunk) and a nonrelated oath to a awesome pseudo-secret order. (* the order itself is not pseudo-anything, it's merely that the pseudo modifyer applies to the word secret, instead.)

•II•

in sanskrit they said
the verse was once

in books so leavened on the stairs
and I became the light reflected
there
in plastic artificial and
metal oxides
and
polymer alloy
driven to cry out and claw for breath and breath and breathing -

*COME BACK TO THE LIGHT!*

blinking I fell down here and I can't get back out!

*COME BACK TO THE DAY SO SEEPED IN LIFE, the organism!*

SACRED BOOK of the SIKHS

eighty-two, the number 82.

veranda.

••••
wow!
••••

now, the oath.

to join THE CHEMICAL SOCIETY, you must simply say the following oath:

"Welcome to The Chemical Society, a nuance of sobriety - cold goose duck turkey monkey shotgun smith on the pond, lighter.

I stand away from the flame.
I stand away from the closet-holes.

I hold in my hand the blessing that I recieved.

I wish to stand with my brothers and sisters - freedom of the mind is better than it thought." (*preliminary draft oath*)

Thanks.
You'll probably all wonder what the hell THE CHEMICAL SOCIETY is. It's too bad I can't tell you right now.

I'VE GOT A CHEMISTRY TEST.

come over here for a second, please.

2005-09-11T00:42:00.000-04:00

The Mountain Man

I

he smelling sweetly
of sage rolling
and blowing
twisted working leaf
on branching
an utter wealth
light in fractals
dispersed, condensing.

in afternoon, a symphony
lush greening branching
listless ways

a song so softly sewn
but a wisp on palate-cheek

ask me again –
a call in the forest,
safety.

in naked dangling
bouncing from bough
to branch
and spent –
float and flutter down
a leaf kissed to loamy earth unmoving.

beauty, in it’s ways
stabbing eye sockets
boulder lawn trim
clipper ship
or hairy –
labirinthae, son of mortals, too keen,
a wisp of smoke
caught on the breeze

II

a poet
a fighter
both will show a noble toe
draw across the pond
ripples rising,
both are far too slow

the mountain man,
crying river
rumble boulder jungle
is better spent
than keeper clocks
keeping
brewing up a greeting
of sky and marrow
slender shaft of
moon delights the eye

rain will fall
upon his face,
a forest
matted tangle
moss and underbrush

beetle sideways on the limb
beetle, sandwich days goodbye
beetle lovely branch scratch
and live earth
caked on his toes

a dance for cloudscapes,
survival
lit a smudge of sage
crumbling dispositions
cast away

III

who will choose
cucumber-melon
body mist over
this sweet loamy creaking
bone sweat
earth rumble
tumbling on the lay?

tobacco drawings on his
flesh
dried up tension
shaken away

even shit,
his processes are
better
that that bottle.
an offer
I will have to refuse.

•§•fini.•§•

Short list of things I like doing:

spray-painting clocks
wearing plaid sleep-pants all day long
drinking ginger ale
gluing buttons to spray-painted clocks

discussing livery coulours
listening to Primus and enjoying the burning sensation of Pace 'hot' picante sauce at the same time

hitting buttons on my calculator randomly then hitting the clear key and laughing
pretending to be a physics major (see above...)
arranging push-pins on the board behind my desk and being to opposed to disrupting their
color patterns to actually use them

wearing ankle bracelets

inventing words like lippant or skrayler
discussing the finer elements of The Siket Disc

taxonomy worksheets
dissuading people from stacking things
breathing night air in great gulps

cutting out paper dolls of famous cosmic-doom metal bassists

making short lists of things I like doing.

GOODNIGHT AND A JOLLY FHATM'WA TO YOU

this, the delicious nature of jungle, judgement

2005-09-07T21:03:00.000-04:00

the freshest of hand-crafted eyechedelica.

•§•

Battle-song of the Poet

We are warriors few, and proud
but no swords do we carry
instead in hand a pencil
sharpened at the point

We march under streetlights
and in the back alleys
conducting orchestras in every breath

We march through the bars, the cafes, the libraries –
everywhere, yet unseen by any who care to look

We are warriors few, and proud
on our tonques the scent of dawn
caressed on palate pink
and spit on concrete

Fear our fury!
The poet is the bloodied saint –
martyr and killer of martyrs
in one thought
a wing on every facet and
every grain – blades of grass
and
flecks of dust
lightning bolts
smoky air
wreathed ‘round halos that we wear.

One step closer and I’ll shoot
a bullet to the brain is
enough to act as proof
and step in front of one of us
you’ll likely taste some graphite dust –
or perhaps a little ink in flows so slow

We are warriors few, and proud
raised on muddy water,
wisps of clouds –
souls charged up to release a blast
a volcano, lightning
and
the chill of paper on the skin.

•§•

Right-o. I'm going to go ahead and say it: I am a shā 'ir. "One Who Knows" - the title our arabic friends give to the poets of their land. Long seen as being almost one with the supernatural, the poet was one to hold in awe and in fear. Almost considered magicians in pre-Islamic arabia, poets were thought to be able to cast their words upon others to good or bad effect.

Oh, yeah - we're pretty good at that.

So, I come to you this year as one of the shā 'ir - and the closest to you, too. (Consider yourself lucky.)

(*light, light, light AND
ALREADY spoken and turning
rejoice in rain and night air!
rejoice!)

Ode to Joy (welcome home, welcome home, welcome love so sweetly...)

2005-09-07T00:05:00.000-04:00

as inaugural as virtually possible:

I am ever so happy to return to my home away from homes - Madison, The Ape Village, has claimed me again.

The first day back was reverberant, really. It blew my expectations for welcome away, in fact - a wonderful local musician connection with Tani Diakite and a wave of warm conversation and smooth hooka smoke on a crisp late August evening.

Delightful.

But the good comes with the bitter, I suppose - and I leave my first love in these opening moments. I guess one Mr. Steve Georgiou would say, "The first cut is the deepest..." I am moving on with a half-smiling, half-forlorn look on my face and not a hard feeling harboured in my heart. I just hope that feeling is held dear by both parties - and I think it probably is.

ANYWAY, enough of the philosophising. LET'S GET SOME smoke and clay a cookin' on the poetry burner! Strap on your spurs and let's see this through!

Here's one I like with the title, Anklung.

sway in the lean
teeming

a soap cuttle catfish
sunning in the brown below the water-line

I breathe in the sediment
the organic soupy drifting
and grow anew

sway to the creak and chiming of
anklung

tic-tack
throng k-tong

and flutter of flute song

a breeze that carries music such
bound in waves
upon the shoreline

bouncing along -
two feet
one foot

floating.

sip in the sunlight
I caught in my coffee cup
haul the lobster trap up the starboard side
and gasp for air

I breathe in the sediment
but freshly minced and aromatic
sage brush
and seaweed

one foot
two feet-
break into a run and
lolling,
arms criss-cross
lumber-ing
lumber-ing
ringing footsteps on the pavement

lean back for a while
and take root
absorb one's nitrogen fixation
and look at new sprouts forming,
budding out the fingertip

tell me a story of old oak wood and smoke
a room for platters of mulled wine and cheese
blink in rhythm
to banjo - or lute
carry me back to anklung

and breezy retreat-

so still, so still, so still....

...and dreaming.

•§•

night, y'all

∆

2005-05-11T01:02:00.000-04:00

gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins

Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy

gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins

Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy

gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins

Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy

gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins

Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy

gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins

Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy

hullooooooo

2005-04-26T13:53:00.000-04:00

HUA!!!

Just wanted to let everybody know that this weekend should hopefully be my StoneFloat shows #21 and #22 - and that you can pick up some of their rock and fire at their section of the live archive:

http://www.archive.org/audio/etreelisting-browse.php?collection=etree&cat=StoneFloat&PHPSESSID=b69136bf65fdecb51dd192d1f23e860b

As far as the Ape Village, I truly believe I am not the only one losing my mind. Everybody is taut and anticipating the coming of finals. I have one week to go of classes and I don't know if I will survive.

Probably not.

Do this for me - go out and have a good weekend. Enjoy yourself and breathe some air. Love the people you love and have some cake. (If you don't like cake, then eat something that isn't particularly good for you but you like a little more than cake. ex. - sea slugs)

I can dig my digital camera.

*#(#)•ª

This is a story about Lemurs.

2005-04-17T14:51:00.000-04:00

"the guitarist"

First off, I would like to honor one of my very favorite poets, Tristan Tzara (Sami Rosenstock). He was a wonderful man and was writing things back in the 1920's that is still awe-inspiring and revolutionary today.

SO, I decided I'd share a poem of Monsieur Tzara's and write one for him as well.

The Great Lament of My Obscurity III

where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the brightness in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies
my son
my son
let us always shuffle through the colour of the world
which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy
we are too thin
we have no mouth
our legs are stiff and knock together
our faces are formeless like the stars
crystal points without strength burned basilica
mad : the zigzags crack
telephone
bite the rigging liquefy
the arc
climb
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood

• Tristan Tzara •

Mr. Tzara, I dedicate this poem to you.
It's called " Zack L. on the Waterfront ":

if I give you this stuff will you drink it?
syrup draught
a river coursing in my vein
berries and twigs
I picked with my fingers

LEAPING!
graceful and eyes widening
taking light, ernest in all pursuits
and in the fortnight
green hair in rivulets on his forehead, sprouting.

his face is the soil
ray of light through diner window
egg awaft and curled in moustache
wax
for a shoeshine
on his face
settling
particles a float in air-drink
plow to break the earth and
concede what they had written.

this is something we call antioch
oh, hold-pray
list bracken the forwards of branches weaving
luminent round fountain of
this place
floor is paved
by ancestor squares

∞ Simon Piler ∞

"sampling"

moore and moor and more

2005-04-12T13:50:00.000-04:00

First off is this poem I composed for one Evan Mowry some time ago.
I think it was in a letter or an email.

porridge portage
pouring poke
sliding silver
silver soke
Lindberg ARRIVAL
Lindberg De-tuning oaf and oak
lake leaf line large lozenge

Yodel and redefine
several to the time

Tickled and torn
erasure
complacent
hill dweller
road splitter
down to china halfpike
down to pine smell dime
well thought out phrase

•

If you want me to write you a poem, let me know, and maybe I will. It might take a while, but I'll be damned if it's not awesome.

•

set up a trap
to snare small dreams
in the under-brush-herb-layer

pick up a broom
and play air guitar
sweeping-chord-structure-stasis

stomp a foot
meet a liter
shake hands
and
swallow

blow-back a firestorm
wobble,
toil,
and
stumble

melon flavor
gravy stream
coil of cotton
vision steam

sword for cutting
hair that grows
undercurrrent
syrup-sloughs

coughing, crying
'larmclock wakes
cookie-biscuit-cracker
bakes

lightning bolt.
hurricane.
scythe on the wave
pushed confusion
in ripe gold grain

( epilogue, fades off into silence... )

torreador.

surface of the moon.

jupiter.

grapes, peeling.

•

words of smoke
ides of white light
hearing aid
cool cream
and ice

bananna-strawberry
green
______and
________purple;

BLACK
waves of eiphraim
solar sugar on my back
and heart holding hands with the air

squeeze and I will feel you, love .
squeeze and I will trace it back

•

....AND..... PICTURES.

YES!

Ode on morning

2005-04-11T00:25:00.000-04:00

So here's the full story, unabridged, and with good shock value.

Those of you who are weak to the wrath of bizarre ways, mild to strong warnings I issue at this point.

First off, I had been feeling incredibly compressed and sad the past week (despite many good things astir...) and I decided that I needed a ceremonial cleansing and healing in spring's hands.

So on Saturday I had a spring-ceremony. It was most enjoyable and truthfully I feel a lot better.

First I decided that I needed to see myself how I was feeling. I took off my shirt and put my raven-magic hat aside. I looked at my face and at my ribs and at my eyes. Then, using the red lab grease-pencil I have procured, I marked under my eyes in long strokes - careful to keep my pattern symmetrical. At the point this took place, I hadn't bathed for three or four days, and so I shook out my hair as best I could, and tied my blue mountainman bandanna around my neck.

Then, I took out my assorted herbs (which naturally reside in a brown paper bag over my desk area) and set to work preparing a cleansing tea.

The tea was easily over fifteen parts (some of which I am having trouble remembering at this point) but I will try to list them below:

juniper berries, crushed, and with the seeds
montana sage brush
birch leaves
willow leaves
black walnut leaves
(homegrown) ground red chili pepper (w/ seeds)
texas mesquite from Big Bend national park (sort of a big deal - I hadn't ever used any of this...)
pepper plant
tobacco (really just a pinch)
powdered dandelion root
sweet red clover (with crushed flowerheads)
mulberry leaves
nettle chaff
(homegrown) mint leaves
mint stalks
willow twigs
orange peel

To make the ceremony truly personal I recalled that mayan rulers occasionally let their blood onto the incense they used in their temples. I don't really like inflicting pain on my person. In fact, I think it's terrifying, but I decided that feeling the fear and the self-sacrifice of the injury to my person was something understand my own emotion more thoroughly and to involve in the cleansing and cleaning that was going to happen afterwards. In a way, it was a motion of drawing the hurt from my body and letting it be absorbed and neutralized in the healing notions of the herbs.

I took my pocket knife, and with the blade, peirced my leg. It wasn't deep, but enough so that I could squeeze a drop of blood onto some of the orange peel I put into the tea. I added this final ingredient and took to preparing the drink.

I took water from my giant 4L jug in the english army-issue aluminum teapot my grandmother gave me and steeped the tea for a long time. While preparing the tea I listened to Sigur Rós (which I feel is incredibly calming...). When it all was ready, for some reason I put on The Big Wu's "Get off your Ass and Jam" which, upon reflection, was a bizarre choice in music, but actually, it has always been a "feel good" song for me, which fit the occasion.

After I deemed the drink ready, I lifted up my arms to the morning outside my window, and lifted the tea to my lips. Remarkably, it tasted tangy and was exploding with a spice I hadn't quite expected. (I think the pepper plant and the nettle added more flavor than I had expected for their proportion of the substance) I finished it off slowly, conserving the heat of the beverage, and enjoying the aroma of the steam.

Upon finishing, I had a moment of of silent meditation - just an instant of floating peace on the morning sun.

Then I poured the remaining water I had saved from the teapot into the now empty cup. A soft golden liquid - the remaining residues of the tea - stayed in the cup. I deemed this to be a sort of cleansing wash, and set it aside. I laid out the coffeefilter of the leaves and twigs aside to dry out - I'd need some of the stuff later.

I went back to the mirror and looked at my face again - not much better, but with a different twinge to it. The red was still there, so I took a rag, poured some of the golden wash onto it and ritually cleaned my face. I wiped my cheeks first, then both eyelids, one at a time. Next, I pulled the rag over my forehead - from right to left, and finished by cleaning my neck and wiping both of my lips. I repeated the process again, in the same tempo and order, then set the rag aside. My leg was still bleeding lightly, so I took another rag and poured more of the healing water on it. I washed my wound, making sure to get all the blood off. I took the grease pencil and wrote my "smokeword" of meditation - n'chala - around the wound. (my drawing of the word n'chala is below...)

(It looks better when done by hand and on legs, probably...)

After all of this, I was beginning to feel very calm, and as I had been sitting on the floor while cleansing my leg, I became very aware - the sharpened eye came up again sharply for the first time in two (three?) weeks - and I felt almost dizzy. I saw the corners of my room and the morning sun made every speck of dust and every bump on the wall vibrate just a little bit. I breathed fast and swayed there for a while. It was blissful.

Eventually I decided I should probably get up and continue my ritual. That was good idea because I was getting very dizzy and my legs were a little weak when I stood up.

It was at this point that I had to pee. (*please brace yourself*)

As I hadn't eaten anything that morning yet (it was early...) I figured I didn't want to lose any of the tea and realized that I could be very satisfied by returning that hurt and sadness I was about to excrete to the earth.

I found the bottle from the Mr. Fizz I had earlier in the week (*see one of the previous posts...) and took off the label with my knife. I peed into it, somewhat startled and yet somewhat pleased at the deep yellow-gold of it. I wrote n'chala on the front, and sorta held it in my hand for a little while and let the light filter through it.

To tell the truth, I think it's funny to say, but it was really beautiful.

I wrapped the urine-bottle in a rag and got my raven-magic hat and put it on. I took my guitar strap and made a sort of sash out of it with a shoelace and put on my prophet-sweater.

And so I went, barefoot off onto campus - out of the dorm, past the sunbathers on Bascom, and over to the most natural place I know near Chadbourne... ...the lakeshore area behind the Social Sciences building.

The shoots and stones on the path nipped my feet a little, but I wasn't thinking about that. I hummed a chanting song that started from a simple three notes and evolved to have some sort of words... I think it was about walking at this point, a sojourn-song. I stopped to smell the sweet, white blossom of a flowering tree and almost cried for the waves it made in me.

Then I went on - behind Social Sciences I found a place off in the trees where there were little patches of growing things, behind a fallen tree. I dug a hole in the clay and took out a portion of the tea leaves I had saved. I singed them a little and scattered them in the hole, pouring my urine on top. Replacing the earth, I said some stuff I can't really remember - things about finishing cycles and letting spring grow out of hurt. They were nice, and I felt renewed, in a sense.

I walked back to Chadbourne briskly, grey clay-earth still on my hands, empty bottle in it's cloth.

I sang a song with my name in it. Halyn and halyn-a were repeated at the end of the lines. It was a "song for springtime".

I laughed a little.

The Canela ( second edition )

2005-04-09T19:50:00.000-04:00

Book of Winnowed Fates

I
cards aplenty
insurance rates
tenor functioned, wit and guile
places where the dead are piled
missle system,
debonair,
showered,
symptom,
long red hair.
Evil tied between each sheet -
and something more -an aura leeched
away at touch of fingertip
some say, "Well, that's what you get."
and smile as if they have to pay
for those who do not know the way
to snake-knot-root
wedge-peel-sight-pitch
lemur madness,
oval flight
and words so wrangled to the fathoms,
ten inches - more,
ten ways to calus ( the brain )

II
Launch ourtright the bile you hold inside.
Spread it's oil upon your hide.
Grow wider and more hairy till'
you are a beast engaged in acts of war,
human race devoured at autumn's door.
Natural thick and wrinkled faces
combined from all the human races
in life,
in tearing thought,
in smell and grinding ferocity

Loathe to touch the oils and flesh
or sooth with herb on gasping breath
neither rockets nor the stars
but mere survival on our minds (not in cars)

shelter,
woven cord.
beltline highway, supermall
fluorescent light,
mating call.

Tom: connected, redefined
acrobatics from limb to limb
sparks to touch from fingertips
and brush aside
a mental limbering of the brain. ( plastic )

III (for two speakers)
waywar anonymity
*( scar tissues )
of distant face
and candycane cojoined to friend and limb alike
*( center )
ten penis hut fork-load rapture
twenty-five meanger floating bone-weavings
*( center )
alight three fathoms of smoke
*( water crystal )
re-breathe your food,
re-breathe your snakes.

Amber Grows

I
Amber grows
here in window panes,
Flashing.

It swells with each breath
Then dies, fades away to black again
Automated rebirth
And metered tranquility

Oh, come closer and hear the drums
Played with hands together in rhythm
together in warmest earth-speak and embrace
each beat is a slow stirring
Spring in the limbs of permafrost

Reach down to touch a paving stone
Tie bootlace, bandanna on the neck
Pluck a feather for the hat
Blue-black traces whirl the sky-god’s colors
Lift feet along the track

Oh, come closer and see the clouds
Lit up in this liquid dreamscape
High above the airplanes
And airships
High above the mountaintops and sea-birds and rocket-blips

II
Amber grows a hundred feet a day
She wears a cape tied up with a flag
She waves a bag
Was sewn last Easter

Grandmother
Cordless telephone

Wheel is turning
Subtle overtone

Call out the refrain from your shoulders
Cut off all the pockets and the straps
“The end of the world is coming!”
Wishful thinking is about where you’re at.

Oooooh blow blue air into the
Vapor stream
Ice dementia,
Coil,
Devotion,
Under seas of cream.

Hypnotist
Aerodrome
Marzipan and lace

Wake and feces
debonair
Bone-comb,
system rake

Read your lines right
To left – behind and upside-down
Tweak results to tie code breakers
To walls of soap-wash sound

It's called el pres... but it's a dumb name. He isn't a president.

Duh...

Compounded Relentlessly and without Comparison to other Autonomical Systems

2005-04-03T00:46:00.000-05:00

The earth is a system of fractures and tensions acting on ropes all around us
ropes can hold weight and every point in space is tied to your eye
every point in you is tied to every other point in space
canoodle
cranberry
swordfish
When light moves, it moves instantaneously
there is no delay in time when light moves from one place to another
light moves through things and always in perfectly straight lines
we are light caught in the dew-droplet spider's web of morning

I would like you to hold out your hand right now.
Put out your arm in front of you and rotate your wrist such that the palm of your hand faces the sky.
Is it raining?

Good.

I am 15% jointed
15% holy water
15% rubber scraper worthy / charcoal consumer surplus
15% lined up and knocked down bowlingpin spaceship
15% wax bean bottle-can
15% shelve for wax bean bottle-can
15% yanking hair
15% hat and new yorker becoming more and more angry as history unfolds itself on my flat's mat
(rhyming)
15% $1.23
15% oh hold on, jesus, he's coming to help you... just hold on, we'll get this car off of you

sandals.

The song that is stuck in my head was written in Palau. It was written in Japan. It was written in Bang-la-desh.
You missed the point, hairy head - we've written it off, and off it goes - flutter moonbeam nighttime off into the August missle-sunset.

Polio
Purple Cone Spit
Polio
Mand crassness and hitch

starving for hunger
jungle munger mile
building for the demolition masterwork
inward, glowing smile

Touch the tongue to the tip of the tooth that walks it,
leash in hand,
You smell that? it is the least popular brand.

Las Vegas is paradise and you can't debate that fact.
It will put you in a choke hold and sucker-punch you if you attempt to.
(* note : I do not suggest you even joke about this one... it's not a winning battle.)

CAptainL:
I love that place.
There are huge amounts of people-swarms
alcohol does, in fact, grow on trees
you lose your money fast -
soon to wear the barrel round' your knees
Breathe in and enjoy your painless fluorecent suicide.
Barren worthless waste of desert is a short ride

STickerson the wall
I am losing myh ability to retain logical thought
fingers go faster, faster on the boards below
lighnign eyes and spoken to the meter of the mind
slow and steeped in twisted belly bulge

I drink green tea
maté
earl gray
follow suit
Down the grog-port and through the system
yellow waterfall

No more dreaming
instead, rock-like state on a futon matress
buckled up close
two peices of silverware
falling through a vortex of reality

I drink green tea
I go to shows
I use plastic
I use cotton fabric-weave
My clothes are the very finest of leaves that grow on bushes near my house.

• (okay, everything prior to this was written last night...) •

I'm pretty sure Bluegrass and Folk music has got to be some sort of magic in diguise.
...and as far as I go, I am slowly becoming Andre from the film My Dinner With Andre . I pretty much sit around and write in my blog, drink coffee and play guitar. Good? Sure. Well grounded? Definitely not.

At least I'll be able to see large hairy creatures with violets growing out of their toes and daffodils growing out of their eyelashes at Christmas eve mass.

Nine-thirty - I'm looking at Math.
Ten-thirty - Looking at Math and becoming angry.
Eleven-thirty - listens to Bluegrass

Twelve-fifteen - Jazz and Mr. Fizz (Math successfully purged from memory...)

^^*•§¢

If you want some of my latest recordings, I've been cuting a couple. Just ask.

<--- Back to DAshboard

2005-04-02T14:47:00.000-05:00

My plants are happy. When I sleep I can hear them growing.

My good friend Cat sometimes sings this in one of his songs:
"I don’t want no God on my lawn
Just a flower I can help along
’cause the soul of no body knows
How a flower grows... oh how a flower grows."

...and I like it.

•

People have already invented:
wheelbarrows
cheese food

wallets
scroll bars
(*dust does not count because we only make it, not invent it...)
urinals

glyphs
cake with three or more layers
frosting that sits between the second and third layers of said cake
guitars with wooden bridges

licorice (the confection, silly...)
(...not sulphur, galena, or phosphorous)
the word "YIKES!"
hope
people who are nice to me (this does not mean that they have to smell good, but that is also nice)

the claret cup

[ step back! step back! ]

markers.

**•§•**

I have recently wanted to recreate the legendary armband, Draupnir, of the mighty Sky Father, Óðinn. I don't know how to do that, but it's on my list of things to do. Along with that is constructing a beading loom and the process of finding, mining, and purifying copper ore to make a crude axe. Then I'd be a Viking.

Óðinn also had a horse called Sleipnir. It has eight legs.

Luck, but NO COFFEE.

2005-03-29T13:15:00.000-05:00

Frat Boy

Lime and breakbeat
shudder,
butter,
gun.

Words to blend his drink to
metered whiskey fun

Holy fucking mob-queen
fiery liquid squat
crash, crecendo, mission-bleak
I am what you're not

Go off and party, motherfool
Gamma Theta Rho
When pencil-pushers hit the stacks
you'll be feeling up some ho

BUT on the streets and in the lake
a band plays round the clock
banished there 'cuz thrumming rhythm
sends shockwaves down the block

DRUMS and BASS
BASS and FIRE
liquid,
mortal,
make.

"Come one step nearer and I swear -
Your face is going to break."

•¶•

TRIP to 5206 A

a bitter draught
nine-pin and tap
sweet pine resin
"nearly broke my back"

hang tight, but loosen.
captain's fitful jack:
earwood
wormwort
tenfold scraping hack...

mist over jungle mountain
spearpoint buried deep
rusted chain coiled to wake but left behind to sleep

fluorecent kingdom and
fitful cave
disease in rampant runs /
ancient culture and
pyramids
boiled down to slimy slums /

Mexico City.
Kick shit and splatter...
adobe walls built up end to end
there's smoke that covers the sky
and you're sick in a waste-basket
puking up some expensive sandwich.

***^***
ª--I--º

There are the two newest. Both written 'tween classes - such fun it is.
It's sorta nice to be back, although I did not have the finest of experiences "getting back in touch with campus" as people will tell you.

LOCK IT OR LOSE IT - If found return to:

2005-03-10T19:44:00.000-05:00

In the last three weeks I think I've navigated a caked mud flat. That is to say an dawn to dusk routine of compressed but boring thoughts... mirages of break on the horizon. A voyage with some lush oases, albeit, but still long, hard and mindless. I think I have traveled out of this place, finally. Things are stirring, and for the first time in what seems like forever I've been able to SEE again, quite literally. My eye has come back to me - the first breath of the ocean at my lips - was looking at the snow layered gently on the Lathrop flower bed's bare earth. I stopped in my tracks right there on the sidewalk and just breathed in.

I am a predicter of omens that all too often are simply natural variation. Our 60º day here in Madison coinciding with a beautiful happening in my own life - turned out to be the bearer of great cold as our weather plunged to a ghastly 7º. I guess I just need to stop tying things together that do not necessarily belong together. Good things happen to me, and I should love them for what they are - not try to explain them through means of superstition. Bad things, too, happen, and I should find no scapegoat for my troubles. Times ebb and flow - the good and bad mix and swirl and in my mind, they happen because of events prior, yes, but who am I to tie completely unrelated events into (seemingly) logical explainations?

•••¶

As of late I have been especially appreciating the notions of tribes of people. Not so much the ethnic factors, but more commonly the simple community that exists among truly tribal people. I also have always been fond of creating useful things from nature and the art and tools that people fashion from the raw stock of this earth. I have decided to take up beadlooming and would particularly like to fire and color my own clay beads to make an intricate headband or sash. I have experimented with patterns - calling the lines of "beads" into attention in Photoshop like little marbles or planets or miniscule grains of sand. So we'll see what happens.

Please, let me introduce you to one Mr. Leohold of 128 S. Wennick Rd., Orchard Park, NY 14127-2237.

1:25 %P<

2005-03-04T02:25:00.000-05:00

The title of this poem is "Jack Scott".

Gun it sloth and hair-netter hemoglobin
seventeen melting festering eyes
to drop,
begin,
inverted astro-plane
more or less complete

razor sandblasted monkey azimuth air-balloon
cobalt copper peaches funky sunlight and maroon

Lippant cake sent waves up on the beach
after hailstorm
wine rivers melting
gunwales and whales and marching tin soldiers
beef and acid lake
Lippant cake

I opened my eyes and they burned red hot
ash and cinder black
falling, rolling down the block
white cat and corduroy
mindless hunk of hock

Play LaCrosse evening air sweet ruby tea-drinking
melt and tie together
colored floss in warm sunlight
axiom and mindful
leave the plant to bite.

nettle windscreen,
clay of crooked hut
mild encephelitetic fore-frontal membrane
his is all for hash

I went to the peanut store.
Shouldn't bother...
I went to the store for audio JACKS.
Shouldn't try...
Three o' clock sunrize, soulshadow, milkshake
brine liquid-tot
one for what it was
other what it was NOT, Jake.
or Jake Sumatra wave
Killbourne and astro-plane
guncutters, United Way
Lapland guerilla
icy beanpole Scott.

I'm calling this one Scott or Larry or something...

2005-02-27T19:57:00.000-05:00

First off, I just want to say that I really like two words: tachidency and lippant. I just do - there ain't no denyin'. You'll probably see lippant a few times in my writing just because I like it so much.

°ﬂ°

Please listen to Santana sometime in the near future and have realizations of mandalas. It is overboard-entertaining.

•››•

So... I figured more poemtries. (*If there is anybody that goes by "The Brink" reading this they are welcome to enjoy. Also, anyone who has or has not in the past been described by the lack thereof of pants.)

Tanquis, capitol of drenched
and twisted

Lee and ford
rock and fork
trail to sky
or distant mountain

Butter knive
moon
ice skate
monogram

There are those with letters on their handkerchiefs
Letters made of mud and sweat
Peaches
Business
Light marker
Entrails

Fluorescent capitals
and lower case - in which case I should respond ever so slightly
shift my weight on balance pan
creased and for the spread
of butter,
lemur,
scott

Minds full of applesauce
Spoonfuls of grease and dirty spoonfuls of grease and applesauce
Cheeseburger
Napkin on the table
Napkin not on the table or in the ketchup or under elbow
Lippant-D
Conference room and cigar smoke
Earthquake

Rattle to the bones of snakes
bones of lemurs
bones of rhino-scott
bones of toadstools
bones of blue bright cornish game
HENS

Criss-cross
Focus and unfocus the eyes
let them code and uncode
suck and unsuck air through the middles

Take cookies and feed them to the hungry air
night rumbling
stomach
way-station

There is a word.
Beyckeine.
It has no meaning, and nobody cares to give it any meaning.

System
Coordination
Sidewalks
Tantric ovation
Slight jingling, curvaceous, sprightly.

Leaking windows under the seas
rivers lakes espionage
care for a cracker, Simon?

If you are breathing, stop for a moment so that your tongue can make love to your palate
Taste leeks
or orange carrots
or beef particles chopped finely
leeks carrots beef
leeks carrots beefs in rollup codes and tortilla wraps applauded by the cars over there

Laughing! Laughing!
Squirting from armpits, counting and scraping more often, more often!
Don't blink an eye if you can help it, sofly sleeping on the lap of the underside

Omit all inconsistiencies from your internal motions.
If one side fits, there are gloves.
The shoe is on the hairs that grow from it's own body - a new organism sprouting from it's own ideals

Lids for cans
and cake pans
and boiling rooms
or swordfish bubble-houses

Lemur Castle Mild-noon Bestiary

Welcome and dismissal 3:75:04:12$

SO I've decided

2005-02-25T01:14:00.000-05:00

Tonight is as good a night as any for a list.

Actually, several smaller lists.

List number one is the beautiful list of 15 scientific names of plants, all of which are cool. (*and most of which I have used for herbological things...)

Cicuta douglasii (poison, mainly... but cool... never touched or seen this in the wild)
Betula papyrifera (my favorite of herbal smokes... can you smell Methyl Salicate?)
Juglans nigra (The finest of black tea substitiutes...)
Larrea tridentata (This one is for the Texans out there)
Echinocereus triglochidiatus (so I lie... it's just nice to look at)

Taraxacum officinale (from common pest to powdered beauty)
Plantago lanceolata (kinda funky, but nice... another lawn-impliment)
Quercus alba (warm biscuits, anyone???)
Artemisia nova (quite convinced that this is one of my most calming scents....)
Juniperus communis (well... maybe besides this one)

Rosa alba (teas... but this is not really any fun for the guesser)
Salix babylonica (the old classic... medicine for headaches)
Mentha piperita (this one grows right outside of my front door and makes a beastly cup o' tea)
Allium vineale (this one could be my favorite wild find EVER... excellent with fresh lake trout)
Artemisia absinthium (one word says it all... for all my herbal liquour fans out there... never seen this in the wild.)

Okay....
kudos to those of you who could recognize some of those with the hints (actual awe distributed to those who didn't need the hints!)

Second list - People I don't look like:
(*a hint to the savvy - the second time through read this one out loud as fast as you can... it is MUCH more enjoyable)

Jerry Garcia
Tristan Tzara
Pope John Paul II
Batman (*subject to scrutiny... he DOES wear a mask, people...but I'm going to guess that if you could see my chin poking out of that mask it would be described as more hairy than chiseled)
Don Simon
Pamela Anderson
The Hypnotist on my Phone
Trey Anastasio
Bruce Lee
Tate McLane
Frederic Douglas
Felix Klein
Chili Alice Betchkal
Arun Ram
Karl Marx (although I sorta wish I did)
Joeseph Haydn
Joeseph Stalin
Jack Frost
Whitney Houston (???)
Sean Connery
Steve Molitz
Owen Wilson
The Chick who works at Mother Fool's Coffeehouse
King Louis IV

damn... this isn't quite as much fun as I had previously thought... SO (!) the punchline....

Have a good night, yodel tranqutefier lively.

a normal title

2005-02-23T23:27:00.000-05:00

I'm just

•

Icy wind, coils of earthy smoke curl to white

Full moon candied ice glare on the street

Follow along with words written, cast aside in cigarette butts

The first mantra, like the last:

Au-ü Seul Kamm-a
Tat-tet aziz
Osaureh la meh
Nodah kî serht

Blown on smoke and moonbeam, this the fullest of our cycle

Cut right
Smoth white light
Jibber-jabber, mish-mash

Twelve footprints
tracing back ten leagues or more
the day before

Breathe in,
Peaceful.
Breathe in,
filled to the brim with love for another day I've lived
emptied out into the sky above and
RAINED
on pavement
twelve floors below

Grated vent
intricate form of line and swirling mist
soul-kissed

Left and right I'm drawn
not the dark, but dawn
spoken
missed

Opera song like laughter in stair wells

Paint that's flaked off and below greenish swells

Oceans made of dust and orange-blur-air

School of Business, asphalt, smell of hair

Just to breathe
just to make a light
just to re-align things - to update - to MAKE RIGHT

A blade of grass is growing
Pebbles hiss and spit
Full moon, berries, shrubs, small children are all talking
a tangle of monodromes and paleoliths
web for spiders, but no spider wants to sit

Instead dissolve the tender flesh and bone
seeped down to snow-melt
down into the ground
leaping forth ten minutes past
lightning strikes more often than that

•

I am in such a wonderful smooth mood right now... my headache of headaches has receded and I am just a fatigued person at a keyboard.

So, before I rest I just wanted to comment on that free-poetry that just occured above. It's a picture of one of my favorite places on the Madison Campus... I'll let you guess where it is.

One more thing. I want everybody who reads this to sit down and think of something you REALLY love... a person, a place, a feeling... and thank whatever that thing is for touching you in such an important way. It is really almost the most relieving thing I could possibly think of.

•¶•

** talisman (the happiest day)

2005-02-20T23:44:00.000-05:00

I woke up, I touched my ears. I took in the air, I took in the light - I adjusted and I bent and welded myself more completely to my own mental frame.

I drove to my house in the sky. I pulled up the shades and buckled my overalls and surfed the web for more time than there has been since the creation of the universe.

I took water and my throat slowly melted back open... fizzle and pop... atmosphere.
Nothing is better than this.

It doesn't get any wiser or smarter or more beautiful or happy or more polished or real or perfect. It's a broken mirror, ice cream and several minutes after midnight - breathing exaust fumes on Lake St. in downtown Eau Claire.

It's breathing out and letting the wet fibres of your spirit airate themselves properly for the first time in months. It's plunging through all the clouds on the sunset to raft high above all the blinking mechanical notions of all of our human friends.

TURNING OFF TV'S. BREAKING FINGERNAILS. NEVER SEEING ANOTHER JAR OF "MIRACLEWHIP" AGAIN.

I woke up and my eyes unglued themselves. Canyon walls echo just a stone skipping down the path. I took in the air and murmured softly about wings or crumpled paper rolling across the road tommorrow. I liked the white light glowing and I liked the smells on the air. I turned swiches and punched buttons and dials dials dials.

There are categories that I have always avoided. I walked past them, I dreamt them with deep-heart-shudders. Mostly.
So now I just hug everything I can whenever I can and that is all there is to it. If there was a word for what I saw before I had seen it would be "preview". If there was a word for cat's cradle making love to a spider's web it would be "happy".

The shape of the lights I see... the shapes cut / co-mingle with my mind together.
That is the happiest day

of my life.

hahahahahaahahahah
let it ring..............................................................^.

bpoink ..^&

2005-02-17T22:31:00.000-05:00

Noodler, wrap... tenfoldcap

bisque and plastic
mud and tart
polled and plundered
wranglous gnart

Eleven-thirty
Jesus Phish
Mainly Calling
Tonal Wish

best to blesséd
overdose
formulaic... empassioned...

toast]]..]

Liason
toadstool
betweener
vial
twenty
mind-thark

weaving wistful eyelash soup
nevermore and kindly
millstone and kindly-whelk

millstone whelk kindly and simply
simply put to death
eaer-eye-face-horn-machine
lively anectode
breathing plugged up and fussy

Nordic wombat
green disease
lyposuction, lefse, breeze

porridge portage
pouring poke
sliding sliver
silver soke
Lindberg ARRIVAL
Lindberg De-tuning oaf and oak
lake leaf line large lozenge

Yodel and redefine
several to the dime

Tickled and torn
erasure
complacent
hill dweller
road splitter
down to china halfpike
down to pine smell dime
well thought out phrase

to warble on the hindsight of the afternoo nmo rninge vening.
calculated.

g=labet.jpg

a;(--wud+g

hatstand
rain
millstone beaker-clean
clan clad cloth

med med med med med
house
med liver sanction house
marvel sweetness cheese lippage
horvald wiseness
brain disease
wheelr tack yard beer vein lastage
thought penis telephone makeshift ullay took manage tone I torvald yet popleff unlook Okawert Teneure

theme
varience
totalitarian
vice
clan
spend
rice
horrible

=INDEX($A$4:$A$590,$S$19-3)

href, queen lord duke corona of summage

twelve rings bleak forked beard
bite summon crease believe
boil tense light relieve

The Wildest Dreams of Human Beings
tack tack tack tack tack tack tack
tea room
benign

Ligaments and Tensions that have been re-aligned

2005-02-16T00:43:00.000-05:00

Sooooo....

I am very much enamoured with my beloved "hypnotist phone". It's a wonderful handmade creation that sits on my desk - snuggling right up against the finest of fine computers. (Complexoid-B) Really, the hypnotist phone was an old UW economics dept. rotary phone that they were pitching. It's bona-fide department phone, not just some random rotary... the sticker on the front says "For All Emergencies DIAL 9-911". As I am a fluent user of rotary phones, I worked my skills of elusivity to pick it off before they threw it away or sold it or whatever, and now my happiness can be approximated by the concept of ∞. (pretty much)

The phone is a hypnotist phone because it has my good friend Mr. Karl P. Hypnotist glued to the center of the rotary dial (he even comes with crazy green hypnotist spirals) so that when I call someone he just sort of merrily spins around and induces some sort of hypnotic state in me. I'll admit, if I sound strange after calling you on the telephone, that is probably why.

Yes.

Today I'm going to also use my "Davyd's AMAZING AND WONDERFUL WRITING TIME CAPSULE OF DOOM" for your instantaneous enjoyment.

Today the TIME CAPSULE OF DOOM happened to spit out this choice mechanism:

Live From the Third-Tome/Journal - 2/19/04

A group of birds that could not fly
were known as archeopterai.

Aloof upon their leafy perch
something quite a lot like birch

But with more scales and spores and shoots
and not much more than one tap root.

A ferny lot, above the brine
that soon would learn to change through time

and bubble up as blackened stuff,
to mix with air and then to puff

and leap and crackle up in smoke
to heat our houses - it's no joke

that feathers once and ferny palms
now power furnace - warm and calm

within the center built wherein
for those no more than manakins

or crippled actors one by one
like tree leaves soaked in brilliant sun

and sudden flashes when clouds pass
a dreamlike phrase so long would last

as tails and feathers flutter by
and flightless birds defeat the sky.

*•§•*

Yeah, I don't do much rhyming. This one happened to turn out as a graceful (and complete) loop of images so I found it particularly satisfying.

LEMUR!

The MUSHIEST Valentine's Day Post EVER.

2005-02-14T17:35:00.000-05:00

Lordy, be! It's February 14th, the DAY OF LISTS!

Definitions:

Melhousin = twelve degrees above the equator
Grapes = flesh and meat compressed into dainty little houses
Lemniscate = is a polar curve whose most common form is the locus of points the product of whose distances from two fixed points
Skraler = *not defined*
Scolos = my favorite variety of non-existance

Uh, 100 small things... go!

pickles
small dogs
rice cakes
crumbles of rice cakes
the color green-blue (not blue-green, that is wrong.)
my telephone hypnotist
bottlecaps
sugar
lights reflected in my window
the volume of a spaceship under the water
hats (for snakes)
topping charts
mice-skates

Uracil
rose petals, finely ground and stored in Adenosine-5'-triphosphate bottles
Tim Roche
small dogs
fire hydrants
a 64th note
cash
water, when stepped upon...
...water when not stepped upon
piping
a sweet gaucho
nachos passed through a sonic defibrillator
electons with smilie faces painted on them
Scolos
lint
Something About Pirate's fanbase
ƒ, is ƒ=1.0x10^-6

Nazi Germany twelve years ago
lougen moustache
breathing
small dogs
feather parts
my plants, yes, all of them
the length of time it takes to melt Herbocores
$1.72
Sunday afternoon
The hight of a lemniscate if alpha is less than one
your house's floor space relative to the surface area of the moon
barks
bites

small dogs
smoke
the distance from my eyeball to my pituitary gland
the distance from New Jersey to the center of the earth
the distance from the nearest weasel to your jugular vein
Adam Smith's left leg (Yes, the one who wrote that book.)
the dot on the three-hundred and thirty fourth page of my Calculus text
noodles, after being ruthlessly attacked by an attack hammer
plaster
earwigs
a Brain Leech that took $10 from him every turn
Mr. T's tolerance level for jibba-jabba
the absorbancy of pure, distilled water
licorice in hydrophosporic acid

the amount of time you would live after ingesting a spoonful of cicutol
tabula rasa (don't even call me on this one - I'll win.)
the average rainfall in Winnipeg, Canada over the course of one year
the average rainfall on Io, the moon of Jupiter, over the course of twenty-eight years
the length of Marty-lemur's tail rings, beginning at the third to last ring

a space bar
the amount of bars actually in outer space
the time needed for a group of six tasmanian devils to reduce a road-killed wombat into a small collection of skin and flesh
(....oh, wait)
one over the noise that the partiers manage to make at 3:00 in the morning whenever Joe is gone for the weekend
the amount of noise from my guitar needed to make the 705 pound up on my floor at 11:03 PM
Kooklos
the average IQ of anyone willing to purchase a ticket to a Good Charlotte show
magic, when used properly (!!!!)
The amount of time I can go without picking my nose
geometric sequences

pens?
the mass of the earth's hologram
the smell of a hamburger
small dogs
napkins
small dogs
earmuffs
the angle of incedence for the RED BARON'S AIRCRAFT
coolness points awarded for use of "leet speak" (generally neglegable)
uvulai
squid's love for each other
squid's inability to ruthlessly capture and destroy their prey rapidly and effectively (my bad, redundant)
SCOOTER the WONDER BOWEL!
the diameter of one of Trey Anastasio's high-E strings
milk in a seive
milk not in a seive, but happily laughing and playing with it's friends
The Limit Comparison Test (and his dogs)
The number of people who didn't go and dig up their treasure last saturday because it magically appeared for three hours (WHAT!?!? YOU DIDN'T!?!!?!)

The overall quality of scotch and potato chips when mixed together and left to sit for several hours

The marginal benefit of eating that next Cheezit
The number of words I can pronounce in Icelandic
My overall appreciaton of the combination of the words "zit" and "cheese" to produce the name of a fine food product
The approximate number of times I have spelled "pie" incorrectly in my lifetime (look, I can't remember when I was little.) 90

Corn Flakes
Evan Mowry's crunchiness factor
colonoscopy
the careful blending of spices and fruit to create that miasma you are wafting
the length of a bluegrass song (in minutes) divided by the number of individual notes played in said song
not the amount of time needed to think of 100 small things
my turtle friends (Marly and Carly)
the inverse of my love for gumdrops
the coefficient of kinetic friction for air (at v=5 m/s)

this feeling right...

....now. (Yes, small, but oh-so-sweet.)

That is so mushy I am going to soil myself! Holy crap!

•¶•

®

2005-02-12T01:58:00.000-05:00

So, today, a little self portrait for everybody. I'm liking this whole photoshop thing. It makes my brain twisted and misty with superior flowing entities of joy. So, I said, "*agj ##34 a®Å kln."

I haven't quite decided if I'm a true Dadist. I don't believe so because I show too much intrest in art... I'd have to disregard it and claim that art shouldn't exist. I guess I cherish art and creativity too much to do that. However, I am also very keen on the Dadaist principles of random thought and imagery tied together into Sense and Nonsense simultaneously.

I've said I'm a Surrealist, too... if that is what it boils down to, I suppose it's a shame and a blessing. Surrealists, of course have a strong stigma tied to them - one of insanity and gaudiness. Who knows? Perhaps I share a little madness. I just feel somewhat removed from the Surrealists because they seemed to do things completely removed from emotion at times and my work, at least most of the time, wells from emotion that is very much tied to my roots of creativity.

SO... one could say that I'm at a half and half point... and impass. (If you sum up all the trajectories from my Abstract Expressionisht and Cartoon styles it's nearly un-sortable) So I leave it at that.

•*§*•

I have been enjoying the strange as of late.

Of course, I've ALWAYS been strange and liked strange things but I feel now more than ever I have heightened my appreciation for the happenings of our universe. My mind slightly smeared under the thumb of fatigue and mental-induced feedback, I'm always just able to push myself into a mode of half-logical thought. It's a little unnerving... imputs don't add up to the outputs and it's almost like bypassing the voluntary systems of the body alltogether. Of course, with practice this loss of control changes to a sort of steered mayhem... the method of prescision awareness that I seek.

So... I like the flickering fluorescent lights paired with slighly flowing drinking fountain... ...the psychedelic jazz and sound music that feeds from the same raw tap of involuntary emotion. Something so utterly natural and yet eerily other-worldly is both a pleasure and a burden to behold.

•§•

It has come time for my naming and the naming of this expression. We are already familiar with Byran, sage and guiding spirit, ink-drawer and heart's-friend... a pseudonym for my own creativity. Then, as a more formal usage, Simon Piler... life abundant to speak the lips and eyes of my music and poetry.

But it is henceforth to be known that I am also to be called Jeffe, wise and comfortable, the warmth and melding spirits of good company.

And so go out to your worlds, go out to the worlds you touch each day and recombine yourself. Find out your names and report back at a later time.

Buried under yellow pages so paper to find that in all these equations is sweet sunny dew-light and mornings in bed

2005-02-11T15:55:00.000-05:00

loutisisinfrequent
Originally uploaded by betchkal.

Hundred count leaps and ponders on,
Cut for methods industry and on,
Overdosed on metal we walk on,
When you look and see behind the rosy dawn.

Don't ask me that,
Don't ask me why.

I said, carry... wait.
Blesséd... hate,
torsion wrenched limb and bone alike
don't smoke to live, don't live to write.

when I, the uttered moonbeams care to speak,
mostly meanger,
wicked,
weak.

Don't spy like that. Don't spy.
You've got your methods that you can try,
torsion wrenched limb and bone alike
don't smoke to live, don't live to write.

Maybel Taintress went down to 5 and dime,
cut and bleeding,
crying,
listless,
dry.
We've said, "That's not right,"
"That's crooked, wicked, west."
"That's all I care to know - finite strong and pressed."

Don't atomize this. Don't atomize.
Open lids, lips and realize,
dusk IS dawn wreathed in ash and smoke,
blended to the chimney,
written into jokes,

bled hat
hot hut
mild peach
cold touch

I'll say one more thing:
don't blink, begun,
hapless tweaked and merrily,
the fun has just begun.
Sunlight, sunless, surrender, west.

•§•

Ooh, that joke was REALLY funny. Sometimes my eyes water when I read that one, but it isn't crying because I'm happy.

•§•

Skillet man caress the fire
he's got a pocket of wishes - won't take him far.
dance in the flames, boy,
not so meek,
he's got FEET for BRAINS
and BRAINS for FEET.

Byran, sage of the Jingle Jungle

2005-02-11T01:01:00.000-05:00

Bind here wraith
send twelve back-black
temper earth
tempered bite
nine never severed sheik
when when whey
torrent piety dark
snake twelve history
mile twenty fifteen
pile bean-pole silence
erudite plenty westward
the coaxing bleak
twelve white sheik
the image mirrored and too bleak
motor bent, revolving, speak...

...twisted melody
bleeding nodal tensions
steel and honeybees
toady, toasty went
lumped with candybars
bite and camel's hump
hair tied back
ebony and rice
sweltered East Timoor
crumpled west Châlet
telephone
beaker plastic wrench
tension and whimpering people huddled:

No more logic or algorithims than can be dissolved in twenty teardrops
or a bowl of jello
history pause distort
milestone marker
beween gentleman yardstick
mater-hold and wake

•§•

Yeah, I enjoy that.

Really I have a mode of confusion in my general feeling as of late. However, I also have been relieving some of that cloudiness by practicing the Sharpened Eye.

So.... I ran on up Bascom Hill. It was pretty cold and so I smoked a little herbal birch cigarette. Then I went over to a system of bushes that were very black and barren looking. Behind them was the illuminated brownstone North Hall. I just practiced focusing and unfocusing my eyes... slowly moving them around watching the branches flash.

After a while I just wanted to see the brownstone... I slowly pushed through the branches with my eyes and began to pull the light spots through the branches. The entire system of bushes began to spherize forming a sort of tunnel around my vision. It seemed like my periferal vison had been blurred for a moment. So.... that was pretty cool.

I had been feeling pretty crummy, so I decided to lay in some snow covered bushes near the entrance to the law library. The sky was purple and my legs got VERY cold after a while. So I looked up at the sky and why the sparkling flakes of snow fall down from the oak trees above me and fall on my eyes. After a while I realized that some people might walk by and be concerned so I jumped out of the bushes and ran back to chadbourne.

I felt better so I got a chai and talked to some people about things that are unconsequential to the purpose of this narrative.

Skjånne Kvorregen

GENADM G081041

2005-01-26T01:39:00.000-05:00

Just to be clear, yellow lemonade is not urine, and it doesn't travel in the same patterns as urine does.

Pattern
dancing on palms
String
wound tight and cool in threaded weft
Noise
so many people
so many bright lights
a single eye

Here we're hung to dry.

Stuttered walk and exit sign,
mirrored session of mulled red wine - dude, you know what I mean?

Odors wafting from stall #3,
Noodles wrapped in orange globs of sunlight,
What could it be?

Don't count on fingers, meat, or structures relentless.
Syntax will hold you down.
Don't count on three square meals or vouchers with names printed where I can see.
It's gonna be the brightest light you've ever seen.

Count to three - space between syllables
Cut short and mumbled,
If you were crisp, I was the aftermath - sums and complexes for a sunday afternoon.

•§•

Right.

Please pause for me.
Pause softly and float forward.
Lift feet
from pavement,
several jewels encrusted, related, benign on foreheads.

Breathe in for me.
Let the tickling wafts of fresh nectar-mist wash over you,
Little eddies of motion towards a common goal.
We're winning,
one step at a time.

I woke up seven days ago and I said
Upwards of nintey-thousand yards of raw stock lives.
Don't let the bluff of the common age
kill your orbit-buzz, man.

Wheel and cart around and blesséd be - for what?
I never wrote riddles for anybody.

•§•

(*WRITE YOUR OWN POEM HERE*)

Damn, that's some good shit! You need to write me some more of that wry stuff!

•§•

Mildly-NEuotiC

2005-01-23T12:52:00.000-05:00

Mildly-NEuotiC
Originally uploaded by betchkal.

A lovely little theme I call "The Street Musician". Originally I drew this one to be used for the Side Order, and I still may, but for now I just am going to have it on my blog.

Really, it's a peice of art that is very much "environmentally" influenced. Every time I walk down State Street, I always am GREATLY amused by the street musicians. There are three that are very frequent: The very old acoustic fingerpicker, the "cowboy" dobro slide player with hat, and the red-haired brown-suited dobro picker. This guy is really sort of a combination of all three of them with a little surrealism blended in.

Yup.

This, the night and eve of the realization of place!

2005-01-21T00:53:00.000-05:00

Snow swirling, ice and complete, drifing deep - the six, the eight, the twelve inches.

It snowed in Madison today. A practical blizzard. We accumulated in the course of a day more snow than we've seen all year so far... probably anywhere between six to eight inches.

Outside it's piled up in drifts of nearly 12+ inches in some places. So, naturally, I was drawn again out into the night.

With the aim to smoke my pipe and go on a bit of a stroll I wrapped myself up in a non-conventional winter attire: my moccasins, a sweater, two polarfleece jackets, hat, and a pair of polar fleece sleep-pants that often have the dual purpose of providing me with leg coverings on long sunday afternoons. So clothed, I crashed into the swirling cloud of orangy-brown night.

The moccasins were instantaneously a blast to run with in the snow, so I took off at a sprint up the hill. At the far side and a few hundred feet later I smoked my pipe (which, I may say was most enjoyable) and sang a suprisingly heartfelt version of "Whipping Post".

I ran some more.
Feet thumping pockets in the snow. I ran and clicked my heels and stopped and wheezed a little and then walked and ran and slipped through a fence and then listened and then back through the fence and then ran and then walked some more, said, "Evenin'.", sprinted several hundred feet, vaulted up some stairs, hid from a bus just for fun and then proceded to crash down a very snowy bank to view with a certain joy the sledders on the hill at Liz Waters.

By this point I was feeling a joy larger than I had felt for a very long time. It was the next chain of events, however, that I truly feel sent me into a new state of feeling and preception than I had grasped before.

Crashing back up the rear side of Bascom Hill, I was met by the familiar white glow of one of the elderly and proud lamps that light the steps between Ingram and Van Vleck halls. The snow at this place was thrown through such eddies of air that it was simply irresistable to view. I was ensnared.

Standing below the light was at first was heartwarmingly "beautiful". We've all seen flakes of snow swirl in Wisconsin, a intricate dance of incalcuable complexity.

But suddenly, I was struck. Focusing only on the patterns of the eddies of air around the lamp and the bright silvery flashes of the flakes, I saw only the flashing streaks of tinsel.... the product of motion. No longer were the single flakes visible, only their physical spectrums through time.

It was like standing beneath a turbulent rapids and looking up to the sky... very much like the water, the snow bubbled and broke around the pole, one source of resistance for the billowing waves of silver flashes before me.

After so long standing motionless under the light I began to realilize that I, too, was part of this scene, this all-encompassing beauty. I felt the eddies around my body and the snow and flakes billowing around me. Concentrating on that feeling of the air parting around me, I closed my eyes.

Imagining roots eminating from both feet, I pushed into the earth. With each deep breath I was growing down into the ground, around rocks, branching and spreading my roots into an immense structure. I touched the ground with each nerve of the root system and I felt anchored to that spot like I was meant to be there and I was meant to be part of this moment of the earth. I felt that at that point in time that I was alive and I was engaged in the happenings of the earth and could feel the realationships between every particle of my being and those particles rushing past me and thumping deep below me.

I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was the silver flashes of the snow. But furthermore, I saw the other lights on the hill arranged just so - I felt their distances and relationships with each other with my eyes, I percieved the depth of the orange-brown night reaching up though the cloud of flakes... I saw the brickwork of the hill mesh into the pattern of the snow... it was like I had turned my perceptions on to some super sensitive mode and yet I was completely at rest. I urged my heart to be the shapes of the snow.... and it WAS. I felt all the fluxuations and turbulences in myself and through me and around me, and then I simply laughed out loud.

I took a deep breath after that. I was still feeling sharpened but pulled my eyes away to look down at my feet... they had been covered with snow - quite actually buried during the progress of time. I felt the snow on my shoulders piled high, and my sleeves white with the collected flakes. I breathed deep again and thanked the night over and over and I felt honored to have been given the opportunity to experience what I had.

With chin held high, I left that spot, walking straight back up the stairs, though the drifts, now knee high, now to ankle. As I walked I felt the sting of the wind sending flecks of snow onto my hands and face. My hands, exposed for a long time, were cold but I "pushed" the heat up from the middle of me out to the fingers and they were warm. As I walked, when my hands became too cold, I repeated this process, concentrating on my fingers and sending out a pulse of warmth that I could wash all the way out to the very tips of my fingers.

As I passed a glossy window of Birge hall I caught my reflection and stepped closer to look at myself. My shoulders were piled high with snow, my sleeves and socks were frosted and my face was coated in flakes - so much so that I looked as if I had aged to become an old man. It was a coating of a white beard and I said to myself that I had become some sort of prophet or seer or sage of sorts and made an informal promise to remember this day.

I came to Chadbourne and laughed inwardly as I stepped indoors. Even as the ice melted away from my face in the elevator several socialite girls exchanged nervous compliments of each others purses. I squeezed my eyes closed and felt the warm rush of my realizations wash over me. I didn't care if my face was covered in dew... in fact, I almost found it funny coming back to the warmth of the building and all the eyes of my fellow college kids and their modern lifestyles.

My experience this evening was one of the most accute spiritual experience I've had to date (probably second to my bonding with the mountain with which I share a name - which is, of course, an entirely different story), and the strongest of the series of perceptually stimulating sessions I have had the joy to experience here at Madison. I feel that I found a sense of connectedness and place tonight. I feel that I am woven into the fabric of this time and it is exciting to feel able to melt into my surroundings that I am so essentially a part of.

Personally, I feel that in today's modern world people are not able to percieve and feel like they should and most people block out the beauty in their lives because they are busy or tired. If I could ALWAYS be aware of the things around me and percieve the intricacies of my surroundings I would be the wisest and most tranquil person on this earth. Every person could benefit from the sharpened eye... it's not like it's anything extrordinary, but when you practice and FEEL you really can go amazing places and begin to understand what it is to encompass and to be encompassed to billow away and to remain steadfast and anchored... to realize the relationships between things and their motions relative to other things and moreover oneself... and most amazingly to feel the motion of those things, to feel those intrinsic relationships through oneself and in oneself, that is the purpose of practicing the sharpened Eye. Seriously, I'm not even close to kidding here.

It's still snowing.
•∞•

"Don't tell me these things. I'm not ready to hear these things."

"I can tell that your heart wants to hear all the tales of all the centuries. Why does your mind stand in the way of this?"

"All is well when there is no change... turn the horizon and people will naturally be dizzy."

•¶•

Ätthögar. Dessa finnas hos oss i stor myckenhet.

2005-01-20T13:29:00.000-05:00

Yup. Two more poems for feasts. One written casually to a cup of coffee this fine morning, the other in a crowded lecture hall prior to my ridiculous Anthro 100 lecture.

•§•

A speckled line.
A roto-glossary of people who are more delightfully self-conscious than me.

Buildings are funny thoughts.
Immersed so thoughtfully in shape and line, but towering, relaxed so thrown against the sky.

A decadent end to all foreign travelers without leather pocketbooks.
An end to all decent and righteous folk with numbers of fingers that differ from the more commonly accepted value of ten.

Motors crossed with butterflies, who could resist?
The oily trappings of the steam-coal youth, blessed across the wildest rivers.

And realize that with speak and fall one hundred million ladybugs and rainbows are draining from my goblet.
One hundred-eighty thousand ear-piercing octaves bending through crevasses and cracks of distant walls.

A missile, a pony, a bead weaver, a grass cleansing mechanism, a lightbulb.
Three-quarters of the day is done, noodles and furballs line the sidewalks.

People use umbrellas. Who needs umbrellas?

Smelling my way towards infinity, shifting my feet for a better view, right behind you.
I’m dancing but not quite seeing it on the horizon.
You could realize a moment too late that there’s a kingdom of spiders and brainfreeze waiting on the doorstep.
You could realize.
You could masquerade at half-past doomsday with a clavinet, three donuts and the goldfish-baggie you won at the state fair.
You could masquerade.

•§•

A dreamlike colloidal suspension of thought and memory.

Inert swirling patterns of light and color dissolved down to the tiniest particles of tension and wile.
Of the 187,576 hairs connected to my scalp at this present moment exactly 4
have the nerve enough to confront
said lip-biter,
said imaginary lighter of fuels,
said crimson-stained daydream of souls flickering to flipped
switches down stairs and hall,
ten breaker boards, one hundred fifty-nine speaker cables, ten-thousand scoops of light initiation locations,
each one tied delightfully to my eye,
each one tied in co-parallel bunches, alligned in perfect angles of patterned ethos and magic that terminates at optic nerve.

Or does it continue on to pierce the brain - painless, quick - the skull becomes a vessel filled to mirrored brim.

A yawn, a system failure, once more delighted, ten eons hence is won.

•§•

~

2005-01-18T16:30:00.000-05:00

Small people
Originally uploaded by betchkal.

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Yeah. Bearman,
Wide-eye and Randy all give their respects.

I just would like to comment on my most beautiful and wonderful and rosy and tasty-fine pipe which I love ever so dearly. Really that's about all I wanted to say about it except the fact that I may or may not be purchasing mango-inflected tobacco (not INFECTED, see? INFLECTED.) today with a batch of pipe cleaners.

Because it's fun, that's why.

No, the real reason I wanted to post today was to try out my new trick-a-dealio... yes, yes, I can hear your ferverent anticipation seeping through the canals of hyperspace already, but don't wet yourself. Here it is:

See, it all ties together in magic of bountiful quantities. I have class soon, but I promise more good stuff is on the way.

Even though I started and sucessfully deleted this entry six seperate times. Actually, make that nine times.

Pointguards and magic.

2005-01-02T18:48:00.000-05:00

I closed my eyes in "Super" Target today at the checkout line. Although I'm not a reverent super target kind of person the sounds were pretty amazing. It's a little overwhelming... I'm sure you know what I mean, especially if you have ever been to Wal Mart.

...a little grotesque.

"Good job, Wilson. Like, I'm not even joking - Wilson rocks."

- Emerson

Just for the record I do NOT write tomes every single time I post... only most of the time.

Uh, look...

2004-12-23T11:21:00.000-05:00

I don't know if you all got that last one. It's a joke only for people with senses of humour that enjoy dressing like pirates. (no, not for finely humour-tuned people who like to dress up as pirates. Yes, for people whose senses of humour like to dress like pirates. I knew you'd get it, Charlie.)

Hey, it's my last day in Madison for a while and my last day with my beloved computar, Complexoid B. I do love this machine, because - let's face it - I'm a little bit of a computer addict. But, all justified, my computer DOES give my my daily dose of music day in and day out, PLUS a way to talk to all my dudes and dudettes. Even more than that, it lets me draw some pretty wackin' weird drawings for my good friends, The Side Order.

Actually, I could probably ramble off like that for a LONG time. Complexoid B is what I've done all this blogging on for cryin' out loud! (and I do know how much every bat and bicycle loves this blog even though nobody really ever comments except Tim because he's nice.)

So, case-in-point, I'll probably miss Madison, but I think that reasonably speaking The BIG EC will have it's benefits. Really the trade-off is about the same. I wanna get the hell out of this damn dorm and eat real food.
Seriously.
There is almost nobody on my wing and I've been taking finals for nearly a WEEK. Do you know how long that is? It's about long enough to build a small Aztec-style pyramid, sacrifice several people, memorize the english dictionary, eat a half-barrell of rice-o-roni (although realistically you could do the two previous ones simultaneously), run halfway around the equator of the earth, dissmiss the digested rice-o-roni from your body, and blow your nose.

THAT's A LONG TIME.

Okay, I think we're done with that line of thought, then. I was going to delight Ammar and Atun with a fresh pot of coffee on the day or our daughters wed... uh, the day of our last final, so I better get on that. Captain, you take over for a while.

CAPTAIN: "Captain's log: stardate 12/23/04: I sit at Davyd's computer, aimlessly filling blank space. The ship is travelling through gamma quadrant... yeah, bleep, bloop... who wants to talk about that boring shit anyway? Guess what is REALLY on the captain's mind. Yup you got it. PICKLED FOOD. Seriously. I love it. The CAPTAIN LOVES HIS PICKLED FOOD. Herrings, Eggs, Pigs Feet... pretty much anything that is as succulent as that when pickled, I'll eat. The only pickled thing I have distain for? Well, little junior space-cadets, it's pickles. They soil the name pickle. I mean couldn't they thought of something better to soak in brine? Like MAYONAISE, guys? I always wanted pickled MAYONAISE, but NOOOOOOOO... they had to make the damn pickle...."

Davyd: Okay, captain, that's quite enough.

Captain: You haven't even begun to hear me ramble on about what I was rambling about!!!!!

Davyd: Go back to your little box-like house, please.

Captain: Oh, okay, Mr. Grand High Commander, sir... what EVER you SAY. Bllllllllll......... (in case you were wondering, that was him sticking his tounge out at me... I just can't think of a better way to notate that noise than all consonants.)

Westward won and back we run.

Welstred, the commoner - Lord Sigmus of Realms Berated

2004-12-22T01:56:00.000-05:00

We'd like to start off by listing a NEW LIST OF THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY™.

• Being a fan (of Phish, StoneFloat and The Big Wu in particular, but pretty much of any band...)

• Seeing the complexities and beauties around me (see the post on The Sharpened Eye below)

• Really, really cold weather that bites your face... (the extreme notion being the frosty-beard effect)

• Plants. Yeah, pretty much. I love them and taking care of them.

• EXERTING CREATIVE ENERGIES! (This blog being one of them, my ongoing musical notions one of the multiple others...)

• Wacky conversations. (These can be witty or just plain bizarre... time travel and waffles)

• Seeing family and friends that I haven't seen for a long time. (I'm looking forward to break, folks, let's be frank.)

There are a lot more, maybe I'll share later. Maybe not.

Phish is a group of people I ultimately admire. They're a group of people that have really given me a formation for much of my creativities... they've not only helped to sculpt my inclinations towards good music, but have taken humour towards life and creativity and given it a viable excuse in music. It's delightful, happy stuff with an unquenchable sort of nature to it. There is no real way to put it out. The music really just goes on and on and I'm pretty sure that if the band wanted to they could resume the music at any time they pleased. Bottom line - they make me feel awesome.

It is no wonder, then, that I have researched the history of the band in depth. I know the ins and outs... but most of all, I appreciate the early days of the band when it was mostly just a spinnning shape of notes and rhythms. But today, I got a show that means more to me than any show I got in the past.

The place... the grassy space inbetween Wilkes, Davis, and Wing dormitories at the University of Vermont. The date - May 3rd, 1985... one exactly year before I was born. (My pre-birthday you could say.... I was exactly -1 years old) It's suprising that the date didn't catch my eye at first.... it was the year that stood out, in fact. It stood out as the earliest recorded show in circulation that I have ever seen. (I had always thought that an '87 show at Nectar's in Burlington had been the earliest in common circulation and in MP3 format) The actual show was on an "end-of-the-year BBQ" for the three dorms... almost comical stature for a band that just this year played a festival for over 50,000 people.

As if that wasn't enough, this is also a moment of "Genesis" (with a capital G) for the band and it's sound. Before this point, the band had played with Jeff Holdsworth the rhythm guitarist for early Phish, but hadn't discovered Page McConnell, the mighty keyboardist who would become such an integral part of the band's sound. It is in fact THIS show that Page first plays with the band, sitting in for the latter half of the set. I was struck because I couldn't hear the keys on the beginning of the show and when Trey introduces Page as a suprise I nearly fell off my chair. What could be better for me, the early days buff, than to have in my posession the inagural moments of our beloved Leo?

Yeah. (*insert laughter of ten thousand people here*)

• Pancakes with apples in them?

Write me a scram-jet program please. Send it to my e-mail or send it to my little room suspended in the Madison air or send it to the house that I only live in when I'm not at school but like quite a lot. That would be cool because scram-jets are pretty cool and I have several uses for that sort of program.

I tried to play my acoustic guitar on top of Bascom hill all bundled up in the 0º weather tonight at 11:45ish, but I realized that to grasp the pick and strum without muting the strings was pretty hard, even with my bum gloves on. Soon after that I got frostbite on both of my legs and they snapped off and so I sold them to a butcher who made sausage out of them. I used the money to buy myself the vintage amplifier I've always wanted and paid off the rest of my college. (Hey, legs are a rare commodity, okay?!?)

(*insert monkey and steamship noises here*)

Whistle a little for me. I'll hear you wherever you are. Do it and I'll say, "Wow, now if that isn't some fine whistling. Thank you for doing that." If you can't whistle, don't worry, you can always snap your fingers or something. Humming is good, too. Pretty much anything that you do that makes just a little pleasant noise, I'll absorb it into me and when I've collected enough, I'll secrete it out and collect it in a small flask. I'm pretty sure that the secreted whistlings of friends are some sort of magical species or something.... good for healing things. That would be pretty cool.

Not really related to that topic is my favorite lovely idea for people in a mostly surrealistic sense. I believe that I will begin to simple store objects inside my body and grow them out of my torso whenever I need them. When I want to put them away I simply touch it back to my body and it absorbs back inside of my body. This is convenient because if I need a cup for drinking out of I can simply grow it out of my body and don't have to worry about cleaning it because it is clean when I absorb it back in anyway. Pencil dull? No problem... reconstitute it and then grow it out again... fresh as ever and never a nicer eraser (let me tell you)!

(*black and white lines that stretch off into both the positive x and negative y directions*)

Trey is peeking over my computer. Goodnight Trey.

There will be pie at midnight.... no, seriously, that can't be right, Bruce.

2004-12-21T01:43:00.000-05:00

First off, there is nobody I REALLY know named Bruce. However, whenever I hear the name Bruce I can only think of a guy my Dad used to work with. It's strange that of all the people named Bruce in the world (and let me assure you, there are multitudes of Bruces out there...) that this guy would be the one that I associate the combination of five letters with.

Okay. But, seriously, that wasn't my point.

The real idea was to articulate on several of my good plans. (look sort of impish when you read this, and get your pointy teeth out and rub your hands together a lot.)

1.) I have always had a fancy for the paradox of communication. We humans have such a love for speaking, yet we are always stepping on the toes of communication like awkward dancers. Sometimes, though, we're purposely malicious. Cutting toes off with crusty butter knife malicious.

Take for instance our practices of advertising. Commercials are noise and random lights flashing. They convey information that has no use to the viewer realistically, yet are still figured as "communication" in a sort of twisted sense.

So, in fairness, I've started to do the same. It is my new passion to take part in "communication" with fellow humans with only a few hitches. We say as much as possible and try to convey next to nothing. If nothing more than a method to crack smiles, this is a pretty darn good way to hit idiots in marketing with the blunt end of the language stick when they aren't looking.

I suggest you try it. It's reasonably entertaining, and who can resist a conversation about navels and washers. I can't.
(I also know that using a quote from AIM really isn't cool, but this is my best example....)

11:47:53 simonpiler: Let's transfer information through communication, okay??
11:48:04 bjhboarder: okay
11:48:30 bjhboarder: go
11:48:41 bjhboarder: heh
11:49:29 simonpiler: I have a navel that is not olive green and I live in a building that is approximately on the order of 1x10^2 feet tall.
11:50:44 bjhboarder: My fridge has approximately one half of one half of a gallon of apple cider in it. I also currently have Four washers and a bolt sitting on my desk.
11:52:29 simonpiler: I create a gas that weighs more than vaporous water when I breathe and when the sun shines really brightly I sneeze, expelling small particulate masses of saliva into the general atmosphere.
11:52:41 simonpiler: Seriously.
11:55:16 bjhboarder: Harvest grain Sunchips® are good, Textbook returns are bad. Don't mess with Ray Allen. He is playing the best basketball of his life this season.
11:55:55 simonpiler: I won't. I eat the matured flowers of trees and sometimes the condensed sap of trees, but I am generally regarded as strange when I take the ground, bleached, and re-pressed structural cells of these organisms and attempt to consume them.
11:57:17 bjhboarder: You can purchase your own gold edition, autographed Bernie Worrell Bobblehead from www.Bernieworrell.com, but you can't make me eat it.
11:58:01 simonpiler: I once was walking in the wintertime and the overall temperature of my general location indicated that there was not much kinetic energy in the air and when I breathed my little grotesque facial appendage/beard was coated in a layer of frost.

As you can see, Bundy and I are both actually saying things that make sense. It's not nonsensical.... more of just logistically inaccurate. There are other good ones, too. I won't go on, though, you get the picture.

2.) Sure... the next project is one that doesn't involve endives or pencil-erasers or anything with sec(x) in it. (Even though in my opinon sec x is just some mathematician's cruel subliminal messaging trick... you try writing it 50 times as an exponent without writing sex once. Seriously, you can't do it and do math at the same time.)

I've always liked the feeling of extracting something useful from more complicated and rough components. I've dug clay... ...yeah... and stuff like that. But I'd like to get some more organic syththesis going on by using steam distillation to produce and separate out the oil of juniper berries.

Why, you ask? The aroma is immesurably calming and very fragrant. It's unlike any other conifer I've ever wafted... fruity and "piney" at the same time. So, yup... that's project #2.

3.) MUSIC.
I've been crackin' at my solo guitar stuff for a while now and I'm beginning to really like what I'm getting... however, I would like to move into a larger competency with lead work and delay looping. I've done some exciting electronic magic with an effect called "automatic filter" - it works out very well, but there are still some tweaks to figure.

Okay, punch line: #3 was basically to let "the crowd" know about my demo CD that I'm putting out, "Twenty-one Musician". It's under my pseudo-pen-name, "Simon Piler" and is pretty damn good listening for $1. Realistically, I'll give it to you for free, but I'd like to at least be able to partially pay for the CD's I use to burn with. Just e-mail me or talk to me when I'm home or send me a letter, and I WILL get you the CD... I have the means, worry not.

That's all.

1, 2, 3....

99 songs that don't start with the letter ∂ and one that does...

2004-12-21T01:28:00.000-05:00

flowpoetrythegoldenclawsbynightyouenjoymyslefgrindambie
nceofdormroomlettertojimmypage∂wah∂uyarfluffstravelsthe
horseihavenoideaseventimetwosilverstringstrumthehorsesat
iationstationscentsandsubtlesoundsintroihavenoideaacoustic
thetonaldisagreementtomorrowssongrooftopiamtheseadogf
acedboytuliptimereprisetreeplantingpeglegfikusintothewildca
rstrucksbusesidahooutofgastrainsongcalculatorsongtweezer
elijahcomebygoodtimesbadtimesbustedbicyclepoorhearttheb
oltonstretchquinntheeskimoiftheresstillramblinintherambler9
0milesmossycowsnowonthepinesorionsbeltherecomethebast
ardsaftermaththelandladymentalbreakdownminkintheclassica
lthememyrubberbandlongitudetakebacktalkatthegazebobitter
bluefriendofthedevilclinchmountainbackstepfluffheadrosesth
esweetsunnysouthfluffheadonthephoneiwannarideyouraydaw
nballoonwillowtreelimbbylimbroughneckbluesllamaeasyaspie
ethersundaydinnerandamoviehampshumpblackeyespeasilcant
urnitovahouseofwurestlesswind40milesfromdenverfreeoneang
rydwarfand200solidfacesofyoughostheenttothebogtuliptimepi
ratesongjackaroocharacterzerothegroomsstillwaitingatthealtar
scentofamuleheartcooksbrainpamelabrownwonderboycaseyjon
essomuchtosaybluegrassbreakdowntastewedgedownwithdisea
seconvenientparkingacdcbageverythinginitsrightpl ace.

WOW. I am explicitly and implicitly excited about this.

Poemtrees

2004-12-20T11:53:00.000-05:00

Wave break.
Break on the sand right there where I point my finger.

Longer than a peice of string that Archimedes used to measure the earth.
Longer than the nose that causes laughter in the movies.

Cloud crack.
Crack.
Mirror ripples in the distance.
I know only three things. I break even on Tuesdays and Saturdays.

Mildly confused.
Fractured, melted, recollected.

~

Drink.
Lift that cup to lip,
Drinking from tipped, sipped.

Ride far in arc of sun,
untie the soul and let it run.

Mirror. Sharpened Eye.
Take aim and loose arrow through the sway of his path.
To dusk
and twilight.

River flowing, syrup and haze is cast
on drenching dew.

Pull draught to parched tongue.
Cupped hands in mountain stream.
Emerald jade and crisp,
so delightful to cleanse the soul again.

Stand up and creaking boughs
bones to arc in familiar shapes
so rough against the stars.
Muffled blue,
cricket hopping, chirping, stopping.
Silence and liquid frost creaping.

~

Here's one I'm particularly jazzed about!

~

I make people from air.
I make people from water.
I make water from parts of bugs and holes that have collected ovet the years in my closets.

I make avenues with rain.
Bend hammers, liquid such that into each other completing circles with rivulets of vapour and steam.
I make magic and people gaze into it.

Look at plate glass.
Look at liars.
Look at policemen.
Look at dreams.

Draw together lives and music of flutes.
Draw together mothers and children and people who are walking but have no place to sleep.

Draw together moonlight and faint odours of home caught on foreign breezes.

Cry on the sidewalk.
Make little rivers.

I make seismic revolutions - waves breaking on distant shores.
I make candy for children with hair on only one half of their body.
I make light, the atmosphere, droplets suspended until you wake up damp and cold in your old plastic pup tent on the corner of 5th and main on the Saturday after next.

I make a person out of words,
A dream out of rivers,
tick tock sunrise out of meat and ravioli.

I can count to numbers higher than you could imagine.

~

Make me.
Take THAT brick,
dense crimson clay.

Take THAT rock,
granite pumice basalt.
wise-ass.

Bring to skin.
Break, bite, bend.

Don't hold back.
If you think I'll soothe you anymore, you've been fooled.

There is so salve for a wound of this nature.
Let's chew on each other's faces.
Noses.

Grow long claws and eyes for poking.
Then I will finally sleep well at night.

~

HEY HEY! (Russian Dance)

~

We are the mirage people.
Propelled in wafting states of mind

The sands that stretch to distant azimuth.
The blare-white sun.
A breath on tent flap.
A rattle, shake and stirring wake of dune.
A sky so lost... depth is no factor here.

Walk onwards,
one after other,
walk onwards,
timing seconds, but never knowing which could be the last.

Crumple.
Broken people are this earth.
Recycled, recomposed, and relieved.
Alight to the sands, sons!
Arise and rejoice, daughters!
We are the wind's people,
the borrowers of light!
The mind is no toy of our hands,
we live for every drop from the water skin,
every dew-fire gem of the morning.

~

YUP. that about says it.

Okay... that was sorta cool, eh, Jim?

2004-12-19T16:23:00.000-05:00

Mark this spot right now.

I want more than anything to mark the earth with my triangles from Sharpened Eye. The Sharpened Eye can see all of the mirrors and complexes of the triumphant earth and with it we call up vertexes to form a greater understanding of the world we live in.

The Sharpened Eye is a state of pure feeling... not a state of mind or a way of looking at the world. Health teachers and councilors and all the people who deem it upon themselves to take the depressed and the crumpled and realign them to create a better society dreamed up perspective. If you look long enough the arcs and the beauties of what is called the "mundane" begin to show themselves. Inside of the body there grows a newer feeling of life and of living and of breathing air and of seeing pattern and shape in the world around the body and in the smooth, flowing shape of the body.

Look out your window right now.

Did you see color? Did you see shape and line? These are the fundamentals of The Sharpened Eye. With vison comes a source of uttmost bliss and freedom. Let your mind clear, and drain like tank water full to the brim and empty out. Then, look out the window again.

This time, REALIZE. Every person has The Sharpened Eye inside, just some bury it away and don't practice it and it is weak and wobbles unstable and blurry when they try to use it. REALIZE everything you see. Continue EVERY line into the infinite distances it proposes, meld colors and shapes together, break them apart. Let your eye fall on the brightest and then stop and blink it away. Focus on one thing, then feel how the entire world bends and bows around that one thing and be delighted.

I do not mean to sound like some instructor or drill master or specialty source of things. I would rather like that my friends and the ones that I feel close to could feel the way that I have been so lucky to uncover in my time here in this whorling cloud of shapes and color and emotion. I want every person to gain the way to beauty and discovery. Most of all I want to explain.

And as of right now, no explainations for the heat of passion that this world embraces have been discovered. The binding spiraling trusses of the innermost energies of this planet and this universe that go off and dance in some distant place far from where my eye lands have meaning and order and a trigger of light and sound that march off my ears and eyes as I compose these words.

To feel truly amazing, I would like to involve the transformations of objects and colours over time into my daily life with more effect and reason. Humans treasure powerful sunsets and watching fires.... this is the beginning of what I wish, but to realize these things from hour to hour with a clarity that is reserved for sunset watchings is something that few have been able to maintain.

In the light of observation, I must also mention the absolute beauty of sound and of how it marks my life as much as the passions bound in vison. Ambiences grace our lives, but we do not care to capture and savour them. I ask you next time you go to a crowded place to close the eyes for a moment and drink in the sea of sound that glows around you. In this sense, vision is almost as powerful, the lack of color and shape... yet still graced with the visionary inflections of shape and colour your eyes produce against closed lid are amazing.

I must also profess my love for music. In it's loom I find such peace... from it's cloth myself and others are healed and supported, and most of all... we are subjected to the imagination and power associated emotion that is tied to the notes of music. This is incredibly relieving to me, personally, that humans can touch their fellow humans so deeply... even though it may be only a few individuals who accomplish this with the grace and bliss of The Sharpened Eye.

Milestone. Warp and weft, milestone. Makeshift. Marker and plotted neatly. 10 inches long, but no longer dreaming.

Synax Snakcs

2004-12-19T16:13:00.000-05:00

Whenever. This while machine. This while machine.

Yes, yes, of course, they say. They say of course and blink their eyes, flaps of skin melting, melding. They blink, bat, and whites to bend and bow, break and send waves out over the desert.

We respond, utilize. We respond and in the mist that slowly leaks from lips new lives are formed and new lives are slowly created in the abcess of mist and light that is inbetween all of the particles that make up the mist.

Milestone, marker.

Welders and of that sort, we write. OF THAT SOUR SORT WE SORELY SAY: make machines make machines make machines make machines, repeat. Make machines and make clouds where humans make more humans to make machines and clouds to make more humans and machines and clouds and the hammer flies off into outer space.

It spins. Don't question that. Don't shed any tears, don't mildly, meakly write to them, don't imagine christmas lights or weak juniper smells. Don't live that way, don't live.