hell beach i am going to I am going beach to (you without)gathering seashells 'n (wind sea chuckles) >>>this is where you are looking, not right, up to where i found the right spot for your eyeballs [icon insert here(?) :] "blam" when designing/ smashing shells arrows draw eyes (scroll down, now) i am going to (beach, shells, hell) you?
A writer I like has done some spoken word, and it reminded me how interesting/ different read vs heard can be. Changes the impact. So, I’m going to record a few of my pieces, for fun (and, because I’m feeling a bit… stuck, at the moment, in terms of writing). My lunchtime today consisted of me at a mic, doing some of this. Hope you like the effort. (Not sure I do…)
draped in cotton, fur,
minerals and animal skin.
This… sea of air.
woven worm spit
around their necks.
And I am aching
Cheers to lost fathers.
And however the angels say cheers in their heavens,
in their cups,
within the company of
the lost gods of childhood.
Just some dumb counter encounter,
me and my old doppelganger,
dusty old man, wry eyed in the mirror,
wishing the kale juice was something higher test.
Gotta flush those toxins, baby,
gotta pretend the last decade didn’t happen.
There’s that kid, sliding up next to me again,
flat noted whistle, sly look,
elbow in my side:
“Hey mister –
it’s just some shit.
Just the same old shit.
Even the view out the plane window’s
kinda dull nowadays.”
All I know is,
gonna see me,
Gonna see all of us.
…as a child,
the sun on my cheeks,
warm grass under bare feet,
running up green, undulating hills,
rolling down their far sides.
puffs of clouds, cotton wisps,
kite scudding below.
Thinking “This. This, then, is happy.”
A place I would access, had accessed,
over and over… limitless, and forever.
And I wonder, now,
sitting in this doctor’s waiting room,
inoffensive yellow walls,
the ticking clock, and
the Norman Rockwell print
that could as well be a Cathy cartoon
or a kitten poster,
my body suddenly betraying me,
not running nor rolling, just this rising darkness,
these tests I don’t tell anyone about…
did I lose the map
to those green hills,
to that place of sunshine and forever,
that echoes, and mocks me,
and slips away.
A Russian summer,
nostalgic and dreamy,
textured and spare, Bunin’s
landscape and lovers
under the sun, in sunflower fields,
awaiting inevitable snow…
awaiting, perhaps, the exile’s return
from Paris, from Nobel,
like Gorky, poor Gorky,
the dead son, the shuttered villa…
(“I dare say it’s time for all us nineteenth century writers to clear out. You’d better prepare my obituary. You never know.”)
I know she is fire in winter,
ice in summer,
tonic for a fevered brow…
Curves and snaking lanes along icy rivers,
full up with salmon, froth,
life… persistent. Insistent.
and Andrey Anokhin, sketching a shaman’s drum head,
whistling folk songs amongst the Teleuts,
caressing a dark eyed lover
in his skins, hands
following curves, finding
water and fire in winter.
Her gasp, her song, her shouted stanzas,
body like a wire, quivering like a pounded drum,
the arching back,
the Russian summer exploding
in fire, in ice, in song.