let it enfold you

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/charles_bukowski/poems/12980

wow.

untitled two

we wandered toward the starry banks
words captured and folded away
there are songs in the ground and everywhere
autumn's bones all bending in place

there is nothing for me to believe
but the marrow left under your skin

safer

jordan referred me to this animal collective video.
while i am puzzled by its meaning, i nonetheless find it quite mesmerizing.

happy 3:29 AM.

fantasie-impromptu

june 23

i've been stuck in a complete limbo lately, a vacuum of sorts. i haven't seen my friends much or gone anywhere meaningful. i've been stuck in my house for the most part without a thing to do or accomplish or fulfill, which really leaves me numb and lifeless after a while. i need to promptly stop this behavior

birdland

"it was as if someone had spread butter
on all the fine points of the stars,
cause when he looked up they started to slip"

back to reality

learning not to overcomplicate things
this is incredibly important

a promise

june 20, 2009

your cold hands will become a home
to my dead murdering bones
these apparitions i would hold so close

your patchwork lungs unfurl away
from distant corners and tapestries
form an ocean that will swallow us

and there's no need or place for this.
heart chambers and hands hold it close
and i won't let it fall from me
your skin made of glass and winter seas
scattered fast from autumn hands.

and i washed forth from the pillowy shores
the darkened mirrors and opened doors
our stories all unfold like paper maps

butoh / kazuo

11:00am, june 19

i don't know what to do.

recording tonight

wasn't extremely successful;

i probably messed around with the recorded arrangement to "a promise" for close to an hour, recording and deleting instruments before i just scrapped the whole mix out of frustration

starting again tomorrow i suppose.

---

eleven forty nine pm

vision of a skeletal shoreline, pendulums and fulcrums of time, o gossamer apparitions
appeared to me in midnights and black deceased winds, the shuddering lost deeds of mine, vacant howling of chest cavities
we don't struggle, no, or strain our golden marrow in celestial outstretchings
a holy war for future texts, unfolding maps, the unfurling of royal banners
leaving the greyest travels behind, raw land sewn together
paper-thin angels and the great yellow stars,
a vicarious lithography of simulacrum eyes,
secondhand ghost revisions with an underbelly of false commissions
and it hums like ancient grey dawns, vexed shorelines and synapses
and it swells and contracts like untapped veins and atlantics
there is no calculation, no clockwork
swallowed whole in smouldering chemical twilights
tangled stars and the world fades to clavicle white
in grace and showering signals, sparks
in permanence, heat death
handed over to no use
there is none of this nothing
alone and asleep

end of

an era.

"a promise" third draft

from journal entry for june 12, 2009

your cold hands will become a home
to my dead murderous bones,
these apparitions i would hold so close.

your patchwork lungs unfurl
in distant corners, tangled stars
form an ocean that will swallow us.

and there's no need or place for this
heart chambers and hands hold it close
and i won't let it fall from me
your veins made of stone
climbing far from me

Izaak Walton claimed that John Donne, the English metaphysical poet, saw his wife's doppelgänger in 1612 in Paris, on the same night as the stillbirth of their daughter.

Two days after their arrival there, Mr. Donne was left alone, in that room in which Sir Robert, and he, and some other friends had dined together. To this place Sir Robert returned within half an hour; and, as he left, so he found Mr. Donne alone; but, in such ecstacy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert to behold him in so much that he earnestly desired Mr. Donne to declare befallen him in the short time of his absence? to which, Mr. Donne was not able to make a present answer: but, after a long and perplext pause, did at last say, I have seen a dreadful Vision since I saw you: I have seen my dear wife pass twice by me through this room, with her hair hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her arms: this, I have seen since I saw you. To which, Sir Robert replied; Sure Sir, you have slept since I saw you; and, this is the result of some melancholy dream, which I desire you to forget, for you are now awake. To which Mr. Donnes reply was: I cannot be surer that I now live, then that I have not slept since I saw you: and am, as sure, that at her second appearing, she stopped, looked me in the face, and vanished.

This account first appears in the edition of Life of Dr John Donne published in 1675, and is attributed to "a Person of Honour... told with such circumstances, and such asseveration, that... I verily believe he that told it me, did himself believe it to be true." At the time Donne was indeed extremely worried about his pregnant wife, and was going through severe illness himself. However, R. C. Bald points out that Walton's account "is riddled with inaccuracies. He says that Donne crossed from London to Paris with the Drurys in twelve days, and that the vision occurred two days later; the servant sent to London to make inquiries found Mrs Donne still confined to her bed in Drury House. Actually, of course, Donne did not arrive in Paris until more than three months after he left England, and his wife was not in London but in the Isle of Wight. The still-born child was buried on 24 January.... Yet as late as 14 April Donne in Paris was still ignorant of his wife's ordeal." In January, Donne was still at Amiens. His letters do not support the story as given.

now that school is out

i can regain focus on life,

hopefully

bulgarian choir pieces

i'm kinda in love





cut me in quadrants
leave me in the corner
oh, now it's passing
oh, now i'm dancing

"a promise" - fragment number two

from journal entry for june sixth

your two cold hands will become a home
stay close, my murdering bones
these apparitions i would hold so close
blow me a promise from patchwork lungs

to william shelley

http://www.infoplease.com/t/lit/shelley/2/5/15.html