NEWS FROM THE DOCKS
I’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chair
look like a throne while you sat on it.
Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,
which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.
I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,
not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,
which has been silent now for months.
In this sunlit moment I think of you.
I can still picture you sitting there–
your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,
the light splashed on your face,
like holy water from St. Joseph’s.
The chair, with rounded curves
like that of a full-figured woman,
seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.
The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,
as if your spirit has come back to rest.
Now a cloud passes overhead,
and I hush, waiting to hear what rests
so heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.
Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carry
your raspy voice like a wispy cloud.”
PRESSER VISION AREDS FORMULA BAUSCH AND LAUMB EVERYBODY IS A FOOL SOMETIMES NUTRITIONAL SUPPLEMENT WHY? POOR NUTRITION LIKENED JUNK FOOD CREATIVE CRAP ON A SHTICK HEAD HUNTING ATF ALL THE FOOLISH FREEBIES FLY BY NIGHTERS BED TIME NURSERY RHYMES GIVE IT THE GAS SLOW OVER TIME MOTHERS OF ALL KINDS SCARED LITTLE KIDS WHERE ARE THE LUDEY DUDES SLOWLY FADING OVER TIME SLIPPING AWAY ABOVE IT ALL IN GEL CAPS KNOW LESS HAWWAII FIVE OH WINDOW DRESSING FLOODING PROPS AND LEAKY VALVES STOPPED SHORT FOR A SHOT IN THE EYE NO TIME TO LOSE OKAY TAKE MYSELF OFF THINNERS NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT AWAY GP CONCERNED HE’S THE EXPERT A SPECIALIST SCREW UP BLOCKED TEARS BEHIND THE EYE WELL I’LL BE ITCHING TO BEG OFF ANOTHER TIME RESCHEDULE LETHAL SHENANIGANS THE GRIPPING PAIN LIKE A TIGHTENED FIST UNDERSTAND I SEE THE WRITING ON THE WALLI SEE THE WRITING ON THE WALL SLOW BUT SURE MATCHING TWITS FOE TWATS NONE OF THIS NONE OF THAT TRADING OFF WEINER SCNITZEL AND PEPPERMINT SCHAPPS A GOOD TIME CHARLIE THE TUNA NO LUCK THIS TIME BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME HEAR’S ONE FOR THE BOOKS SYBALLUS LISTEN UP IF MEMORY FADES OUT OF SIGHT OUT OF MIND MUSTANG SALLY ROUND ROSES WHAT PRETTY ROSES LIKE THORNY PRICKS ON THE ROSE BUSHES THEY’LL GROW IN TO STING RAYS OUT OF THE SEA LEAPING LOTUSES TO OF CAUSE BE A SLAVE TO HONOR LULU BLACK BOARD JUNKO SEE YOU IN THE SPRING MAYBE FILLED WITH PURE CLEAN CRYSTAL CLEAR WATER GIVE IT THE GAS ALRIGHT!? STEP ON IT WE’LL SEE TO THAT ALL ALL THE FACTS MAVOURNEEN I’M DEFINITELY STEAMED GREEN–Louise Giguere
“I myself shall continue living in my glass house where you can always see who comes to call, where everything hanging from the the ceiling and on the walls stays where it is as if by magic, where I sleep nights in a glass bed, under glass sheets, where who I am will sooner or later appear etched by a diamond.”
— Andre Breton
What is the abyss? It is the Deep each one of us carries around inside. But how did this Deep get there? One possibility is out of the seemingly infinitely elastic crisis of therio-expulsion, our separating the animal out of our to-be human heads. I feel this “act” is tied into the origin of image-making.
Out of non-being, being.
Abyss as the unconscious, the primordial cornucopia, paradise and Pandora’s Box.
They say an immersion in faucets can lead to cognition. An
immersion in breathing, however, is a larger fascination and will
lead one to ponder the border between the organic and inorganic,
chrome and rubber, skin and bone, life and death, and the illusion
of separation, because all things are patterns of energy. Here, for
instance, is a piece of air called a word, and here is an embassy in
pine for the ambassadors of fjords, and their cluster of beards. Their
beards keep them warm when they study the fjords. When they
glide through the fjords in their ships, studying the formations of
rock, the echoes of sounds, voices, the lapping of water, the cry of
birds, the whirl of atoms and molecules, which is a sound like mud,
when it is resting, and no one is walking in it.
I used to be a plastic bottle
I used to be scads of masticated waste
I used to be epic spittle, aka septic piddle
I used to be a pleasant colleague
I used to be a radiant ingredient
I used to be a purple polyethylene pony
I used to be a phony upload project
I used to be a stony blue inhalant
I used to be a family-size turquoise bottle
I used to be a domesticated pink bubble
I used to be a pleasant red colleague
I used to be a beaming cobalt emollient
I used to be a convenient chartreuse antidepressant
MPRESSIONS AFTER LOOKING AT VAN GOGH’S SUNFLOWERS
Angry beige cornea in dried sunflower
Ghost signature lost
Serrated jelly foliage I
am the fifteenth
nearing it’s bitter end
I am the dried leaf burst apart
In strands of foliage desperate
wind broken hair
A peering stitched black eyes in
the broken necked sunflower
Stitched acrylic cartoon bled summer
Snail broken wind grass joy,
Vase sink color butter
Palette melt, hot paint stroke
Orange follicles balding winds treat love
John Thomas Allen
Weeee have a new and lovely member. No, not that kind