Aug 18, 2011
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 7, 2011
Sunday March
Many dialogues passed me by .
Spoke in four or five different languages (if I remember correctly, one of then was a dead language)
The winter sun was hiding the cars. Under the flying Museum, the FAIR were full of my city flags and dead people toys. To many people died last week. Close people, indifferent people, for and against the wind people.
Sitting there by the side of one or two other colleagues who I don´t know, I tried to catch the mood of the walking ones, but everyone seemed distant and focused on their Sunday March.
Long Hair (a poem by Gary Snyder)
Joanne Kyger & Gary Snyder (1963)
Long Hair Hunting Season: Once every year, the Deer catch human beings. They do various things which irresistibly draw men near them; each one selects a certain man. The Deer shoots the man, who is then compelled to skin it and carry its meat home and eat it. Then the deer is inside the man. He waits and hides in there, but the man doesn't know it. When enough Deer have occupied enough men, they will strike all at once. The men who don't have Deer in them will also be taken by surprise, and everything will change some. This is called "takeover from inside". Deer Trails: Deer trails run on the side hills cross country access roads dirt ruts to bone-white board house ranches, tumbled down. Waist high through manzanita, Through sticky, prickly, crackling gold dry summer grass. Deer trails lead to water, Lead sideways all ways Narrowing down to one best path – And split – And fade away to nowhere. Deer trails slide under freeways slip into cities swing back and forth in crops and orchards run up the sides of schools! Deer spoor and crisscross dusty tracks Are in the house: and coming out the walls: And deer bound through my hair.
Moonlight Drive & a Jim Morrison´s poem
THE FEAR
Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial and jail seem almost
friendly)
a Kiss in the Storm
(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
scape populous & arching
coolly)
A barn
a cabin attic
Your own face
stationary
in the mirrored window
fear of restroom's
Tragic cold
neon
I'm freezing
animals
dead
white wings of
rabbits
grey velvet deer
The Canyon
The car a craft
in wretched
SPACE
Sudden movements
& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless
Night
The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker
Afraid of wolves
& his own
Shadow
The Wolf,
Who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Water.
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
night
& the cold men
who play there.
a ha
Come on, now
luring the Traveler
Mighty Voyager
Curious, into its dark womb
The graves grinning
Indians of night
The eyes of night
Westward lurking
into the brothel, into the blood bath
into the Dream
The dark Dream of conquest
& Voyage
into night, Westward into Night
a poem by Jim Morrison
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 5, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)