S.B.T. 111

apples and rosewater

here is the recipe for apple rosewater pie reformed from the Shaker archives.
 click onnit for printable size.



ballplayer quotes from Satchel Paige

"How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?"
"Work like you dont need the money
Love like you’ve never been hurt
Dance like nobody’s watching"

 walk right in
mindseye feed pull taffee off the window  

basket of apples on the table

tis the gift to be simple
tis the gift to be free
tis the gift to come down where you ought to be
and when we find ourselves
in the place just right
it will be in the valley of love and delight

when true simplicity is gained

to bow and bend we shan't be ashamed

to turn, turning is our delight

'til by turning, turning we come out right

"Simple Gifts" Elder Joseph Brackett, 1848

xxx

S.B.T. 111

S.B.T. 110

weather true or not if eskimos have seventyeleven different root treewords for snow, someone who knows as much as one knows here
will indubitabully say yea or nay missing the point. look! its snowing! silent gary cooper hushband, in the morning under a thick quilt cover muted a big james dean motorcycle crash covered with centuries old like-new harleyindian twowheeler dust)

insulation it seems like. let us factor agreeably that deep in the core of earth is moltn heat. (yiayias eldress axio tomato eat hot soup on a hot day drawing heat “inside” as energy keeping the brow “cool”) i always thought that wass backwards but anyway this yoga mattress repels lets say the heat sponging away and squeezes itself onto the core, uhoh if that came first nowhere comes after the ground is wrapped coldcompress pushing natural heat further in. it doesnt evaporate disappear or essensually change much nothing really evaporates de facto scientificus.

you know dark matter energy corpus cristals r expanding surreal space to round and about =  m o r e   s p a c e .   space    is     e x p a n d i n g
he salutes tap flick sidewise bicrackery 

 'the past is tense and i had too much to think'  throwing the captains gold nugget into the mix

S

P

A

C

E

? sir does that mean time has compact redundive actionality...

“yes," he said tapping "it gets as small as a nanoparticle possibly smaller thanna planck length making it almost significantly provable that there is no time per se per se per se”
“some scientist said it was a new ergorhythm confounding gwh good would have quantum fizzix” one kid whispers

"you dont need string theory to prove it th volumetric matter creates itself with some equally benefacto central xother applications" the laughing professor said completely outside knowable parameter such as warm brioche almond croissant boundary and almost thoroughly unacceptable “wait a minute” she interrupted "the color evidence cannot be ignored" 

“blueness” 

magicstrate repeats pounding the gavel "explain" he said braiding his beardstrip
que bella bellanocheful snowflakes in gravity fleet

cold comfort cancel that reservation at the ice hotel
you know the igloo is a temporary dwelling a tempo rare e-dwelling

ah nanook, how many ways are there to say snow? we asked him 

'no 2 r alike' he says

three-fifty oven

snowflakes and winter birds fly

mmmm cinnamon buns

S.B.T. 106

air comes winding through

closeups    earth         fire         water

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

S.B.T. 105

upon seeing the weaver

a filterd tactile sense of more
than barefoot toes can trace
the brick work in that
no joke floor
he radiates in finite space
the loom the room the spinning wheel

in umbershaded steady pace
fifteen times the relic face


a rectangle above his head
with emptiness scores warp and weft
spooling silently below the
walden greenscape opens left

passion and red cloth

passion

and red

cloth



_____

S.B.T. 98

ohgawd yer sow-airs yr backbow-ow-own
yor patheddic itss fffunny
yoo antseennuthn yet yu bet

what do you intend to say? did i hear you correctly? what is that vernacular you are employing towards a lady such as this man standing before you oh lillow kwating

aw cmon yer alla buncha ssissssseeees with bookins up yer beehives
entertainin the flat out empty bucket yu callyer brai-ai-ai-ain
say hmm like swingblade hmm hmm deep gravelly hmmm atchyer own speed
that mayght be a lillybit fastr thenna lame duck cheese zeez zooz

i beg your pardon

hawtherne mah frend uvthuh sevn googles yoo is dumm butchoo aint really dat dumb isya?

well i would have to say that i have endured i mean enjoyed a fine education zorba taught me to dance

and jess wayer didgereedoo edgyvacation gitcha eh? a bellyfulla bullsheet in case-ya ddnt notiss wyatts spillin all outter ya raht theyer outta-yer nose
ever ta-a-i-me yoo breezthez innen out lahka wawlrush por thang yo shur r a sawry ix qoos
ferra hee-oo-min bean and yea i sawr yew dancin with zorber an yoo was one sawry skinned leaf ablowin in the wind yer legs wur lahk eightofem lahk a spyderr

excuse me, could we have the butler get us some drinks

thers no buttkissin butteller here mah frenn jussthat homosay peon grinnin idjit ohver thayer yer conehead paytriot with the ducktape ohveriz piehole

perhaps i might trouble that gentlefellow crossing with the teacup, the one who has the monocle rather large thick almanac under his armpit. excuse me, excuse me sir...

(looks up the face’v monsterconster nation ‘yes’ he says flattone some suckyou bus gotta holda his vokal kords, hops a stiff back pbs look anna pen inniz lapelle, wearing a tan-tweed-woolen...

lemme see them cullers boy-oy (reaches out for the sleeve

‘what are you doing’ indigninny fied nanospeck

jest like ah thawt. hmmm its got every culler x-septically black an awlluh the cullers have whi-i-i-ite innem an theres a lotter redngreen gowin awn that kansells each otherrr outn makes that thang look brow-ow-n jess like ah thawt

‘would you please take your hands off of my coat?’

excuse me i don’t mean to interrupt. i wish to ask you a question....

oh spittittout will ya geezis krishner cantcha pull yer porthole offa that broomstick
yoo guys r so griddam slow-oh-oh yer makin me fawllasleeeep

would you mind shutting up for a minute?

wood eye mine? would eye mine? if enny f yas has ennythin ta say well i’d be moron glad to but since yer brain got late fer-the-train imma jess tryin to pas throo time yah know its gonna be the same time a little later awn an then a little later then that onnin on til infinite tea for two two for tea me for you you for me anna la la lee

i just want to know where i can get a drink

oh awl raht i’ll git one fer ya but dontchoo be sendin me enny of those little thank yoo cards

S.B.T. 97

string players who would do something like play a bach score using different notes than were written just because they like the sound could play this. also hopefully the viola and the violin can read their parts in the chord and still get along.



a child walking alone on the mountain
just outside of pont-de-luc october
carrying a bag w/old shoes and wax letters
bends to pick a golden wish flower

swish a sound

a centaur emerged from brambles leading a pack of dogs
brushing his forehead and smiles
they speak in romanie language
come dance with us
vino cu noi de dans
they dance until
stillness
in the meadow
comes rising

nightfingers reach and wrap around
the handle
the overhead door
whispers softly and closes
şopot uşa încet şi se închide

an envelope folding in woodlands falling
arpeggio shadows asleep in starlight
fair winds twirl over all there is to know
how faerietears fall to the ground
to startle the cricket
and sweeten the roses

xxx

S.B.T. 96

harmony and rhythm come natural to ears because cochlea pick up on heartbeat
bloodsurge waves and tides inside out deamplfied to a kind of humming. no place like home why not revert back to the inner ear liquid and slosh thump
thump sound made out of water. the electro snapparattus eye bleeps and sparks according to whatever forces flow to and float synapses between invisiblue trees, even with utmost discipline in place. in space smooth rhumba feels good doctor, deep regular thumping and/or harmonic fifths especially. (the rhumba was what they came for - close encounters of the 3rd kind) major or minor works if there is a beat to follow. go on dance with the gypsies tonight. oh it is searing red flickers offah fire for sure and lines made by light on the water form 'C's & seas and seize and sees...this is like being put to sleep some kind of babydoll sleeping potion. yeah the rhythm takes over and suddenly im inna diffrent place brainwavewise. oh yeah that song feels good and while it lasts im gonna sssstick with it. but then, theres an glazy lullaby aspect oh what is that thing, that independent isolated flame on the tip of the parched twig, that being, that you in there. off off well it turns something over too, like dirt hurled from a ditch cutting a groove thing, but the gypsy pants are being washed because of a wine red punchstain on the backbeat. theres no usual rhythm here. hmm must be the moon.

S.B.T. 92

imo jesse winchester is a great songwriter. a balladmaster like stephen foster.
much less celebrated here perhaps because of the years in canada in the 70’s he flew away just before the draft carried him to s.e.asia with no time for conscientious objecting. he wrote some beautiful songs there. i wave bye bye and wander my way home by jesse winchester


relax your eyes to listen

though he was most known for his songs set in the south a century and a half ago, stephen foster lived most of his life in a small town in pennsylvania. he made just one journey to the south in his lifetime, and that was on his honeymoon trip. he wrote his very last song ‘beautiful dreamer’ in 1864 just a few days before he died in poverty with only thirty eight cents in his pocket.
in the 1930’s film ‘harmony lane’ foster sells all rights to it for 25 dollars cash.

and roy orbison
and while you are there check out the beatles rare rock version

xxx

S.B.T. 88

wait a minute, it must be true, those madison avenue guys started the whole thing(if you try this link and an ad comes up just click on 'skip this ad' to get to the free streaming full episode list of 'mad men'). playtex, american airlines, upscale department stores, just plain shots of single malt lunches, looks like fun. powerful fun.

i remember a professor of art history saying ‘the medicis are on madison avenue these days’ it was just after the NEA cut off grant funding to individual artists, gone in a wink an era of support for the arts. ahem, has anyone seen the orphan act these days? hello...

i was visiting a friend yesterday, she has to do several different kinds of art in several what most would see as ‘unrelated’ mediums or art forms ha ha that really gets me into hysterics to make a *good* living. she does cartoons, pages in a magazine, writes articles, makes jewelry, paints furniture, murals, paintings, publishes her own calendars, posters, greeting cards, sews unusual fascinating ‘bags’ that sell in boutique shops, just to name a few. a 24/7 full overtime occupation. i asked her, "what would you do if you had to choose only one of these mediums?" it didnt take a second for her to answer but i wont reveal what the answer is.

then she asked me. i had to think about it. lets see, the lesser of two or multiple evils ha ha, what would that be? seeing as i started my art ca-career (thanks Pat) before the age of five, and it was multidisciplinary from the getgo, i never thought it would be neccessary to choose just one but oh there is an indominate dictum somewhere that quite literally demands a cutoff point. which is the more of good and lesser of two evils? do this, or do that but whichever way, you cannot always do exactly what you must. i reiterate leondardo da vinci and how nobody ever told him to stick to drawing figures. not that i am a leonardress but to elucidate a point hold the egomaniacal kneejerk incheck

get real. thats what my biggest boss told me before i finally chose the lesser of two evils and left him to his love affair with designy commodities. the next boss seemed like the lesser of two evils but then i found out that evils are pretty much well spread around evenly. but once a precious long time ago i had a boss i really liked

i’m not ashamed anymore of being around poverty level. I get state health insurance with fed backing but. just try to find a doctor. my car is old but has four wheels and runs cause i always do the oil change thing, and we are friends. my friends worry about my future some of them. but thats because they have children or mortgages. my mother still tells me i am like the praying mantis with the fiddle, is that it? you know the wise ants and squirrels gather up food supplies for winter and this guy just fiddles all summer long. then in the winter.....well have mercy.

worry is a waste of energy. it doesnt change anything. being content with what is, the lesser of two evils.

the photograph is my father, at age seventeen, his high school grad picture. it doesnt show that he had grey eyes because of the sepiatone. he was a musician at heart but he made a living teaching industrial arts in a public high school. he always made me feel like i was born for a reason. just like diane warren dad, i love you xxx

S.B.T. 77

ranchers
a cowboy poem



in process needing reduction to discrete imagery in illustrating this poem, i had to start an idea - a spur on the bootstrap moves the horse forward and gains speed, and then a wagon wheel turning like a mandala, the old west with some mindfulness of present day (some reliance on factual material. an overload of regretful missteps transmitted in media blatancy to arouse something which has been decided as a matter of 'public policy' and the old wild west next to the big 'hills' that mark a middle a backbone with unmistakable ridges coerced a response recalling honorable methods to renew and comeliness of the folks who worked land lived with animals made peace with mother nature during a free but hardship troubled era the indian culture before the fledgling affairs of state before the buffalo became property and the ghost dance forbidden.
the voice of a prairie woman holds the air with a broad measured peace while entertains no illusion but tenderly speaks they went west and traveled in a dusty muddy grace of what is see hear feel the rocky and true, she opens the door and speaks. they worked, she said, and closes the door to go back to maybe making corn biscuits and beans
in an effort perhaps partially unresolved) to counterpoint details and maintain cattle-rock pacing, the imagery corresponds with and explores complementary space, and the forms suggest the concrete and abstract mix a kind of surreal landscape with motion happenings of a tonal kind.

she opens the door and her thoughts manifest archetypal form a language of overlapping pictures projected onto landscape and behind the children in the barn playing with mouser cats the western wind never rests and the wagon needs fillin

and here was the little outtake that was wiggled back in but then couldnt be left alone a little study piece tango dream unfinished
enjoy



xxx

S.B.T. 76

in my part of the country there are legends of seawidows and the ‘widows walk’ is a fixture atop every old harbor house an architectural testimony to vigilance and the strength of women who prayed for the ships return some perhaps enjoyed the solitude in biding time the sound of the long black skirt and the quickening blood and footsteps when at dawn the mastflag is spotted over the horizon wind engulfed in its own time not a widow yet she sighs smiling and runs to gather potatoes and pluck a chicken 'good morning barrister she waves yes the captain breaches near just over the bar we saw them clear'




between water pearls the oiled mirror bends
the rain where the pipeline darkened and dim
supersedes the horizon and takes us in

between the bearing of the sea and ledge of sky
silk streamers open in figure eight, a pattern of leaf
unravel embark the seagulls fly

between this moment and the next a silver breath an infinite peel
fog horn drawn out in fractal light
a royal flush in a shaded hand, a splay
of rope unwinds a spooling reel

the border of skin between your touch and fingertip lightly
gentles a skiff over waves and time
slips of sand and contour lines follow a gemstudded shore more fragrance of red clay and the tides moving rhyme

between this a line cast fate a blue whale calling her calf my captain
safe crossing through the shoals and the heaves rolling
to awaken and find ye in passage keep
all the gods protection hitched to the starboard
a compass rose and vigilant sleep

__________________
widows walks have long been a fascination since childhood i have had to fight to resist the urge to climb upon them and pace pace pace perhaps some residue of another life long ago xxx

S.B.T. 75

the views expressed do not necessarily
reflect those of the management
neither do they hold any conjunction
with any actual doings in area 51
or otherwhere

S.B.T. 72

a documentary triptych in a sense, time. over three stages backwards/forwards in time.
obvious unabashed abstraction tight pose struck fast for words! pirouette pirouette save/ any portion framed and abstracted, and then the itself left cooling pie on the windowsill, the gooses pearly opal egg and yet is the process more living and the egg unhatched waiting for something to tap tap it open in a crooky twist and smile that pass and hands gesture and the eyebrows and some exchange of air on the molecular level you can walk through the magic dust of pigmentdiffusion dont walk too slowly neutron armies in the surface texture shoot off nano modules and it sticks to your sleeve, an allergy we will need to mix your coat with water and make monoprints on wax paper and adhere some fall orange red maple leaf and iron it for permanent funk factoring w/a protective sheet over




the evolution of a palette painting a painting of painting a painting mandala

S.B.T. 71

entrance stage right finding clues in visual materials the making of a drawing by ‘accident’ 1st release go loose (tension is good she said it gives you a cannon shot booster) of formal thinking classical training puritan ethic propaganda and habitual short cuts. something with some visualverbaltactile stature a ‘statement’ ahem quit laughing? seer somehow disconnects w/what it is as 'known' previously around ‘statement’ a signpost on the road NOT LAW in blue books but inuit rock carving a craftwork of pulling nuance pox and detail from a blob of something he looks at the stone turns it over and over looks at it smiles at it, squeezes it in his palm then he sees the polar bear this one has a hat 'the form is within' there is no end to expansion of form manifestato engine of now, ode call to meaning? language of inner space) becoming outer space and a splendid art object subject dialect, a communication refined by subterranean erosion or entropy if you prefer 'invisible lines of the world' becomes visible suggesting something deeper deeper than denture, running off the stage now wait a second_______part 1

process an indefinable exploration zen style brushwork like film slowed down or sound loop delayed, juggling rotoscopic unnaturally outlined elements kept in mind and scenarios like droplets of saturated character and depth outofthebox inside a vast horizon nagualish realm a few miles farther than the farthest step taken yet (cezanne said the work is never done), maybe it is like like collage, all these brash torn-edge photos blackened seared wax dripped over and snippets of hairlocks and a two inch piece of raspberry satin frayed ribbon, a glass music box chime painting connecting via (winged eel fingerling color sound movement time rhythm (notsofew can become parts of a whole here come on rocky realm discovers new ways to repeat the sine and sawtooth calling for cane sugarwaves treasures of trojan excavation and the carpenteering to repair and replace honeycomb beehives and some new kind of raw and the projection of unknown chrysalis morpha in a parisian taxi, it took me to work the players cartwheel on the ‘same beam’ electronic vibrationally speaking, why? this i dont know cant be sure the same way twice, well because to explain is more than 'just listen' or or you know See but thats another thing/how but how and what and why eye eye due diligentlemen and lemurian ladies will ask, neatly trimmed sections of the reel crop the 'it is' requiring silent observation and some repeated jokes don juan louis ck style and to get the spices i mean spaces blending in the garam masala mix comes by an overall reverence for turdly emission of creamy dreamy palette bulbs of color as it comes out of the tube on the little cups thick pre solvent texture it has what thump it is wanting eskimo stone carving to do thwack and liquidly, while adventure aboard enterprise time and space and technology and expression on the same rocketship or semisuspended vehicle it goes all the way light leap years behold begotten bibles so what panky panky taps the tube on the table to loosen the topscrew who cares about what again, you like this one so much Hah? thats yellow of course you do or not and do i but something worthy of wordly worldly expression on amber modules in there if only to say hey wake up yur snoring and spoken by someone still asleep, curtsy flip of scarf, (prt. 2)exit stage left

S.B.T. 70

pINk paint drQps
ooh watch out
here a drip drip catch one quick
there they loop a pink milkyfluteglass mirror drop slowly driply rounding a bulge
upside down molten lava chalkdust flow over globular pinkland
at the bottom just before and then photopink kalmus droplet
the thinskin invisible dont know splits POP and a thousand little pink mallets
malleate the fibers running stick running fast and steadfastly splatter
pINk pelnt drQps oh oh thems those is are scary those pink paint drops pINk pelnt drQps pelnt drQps
“nice” a “nice” "nice" miss o'keeffe said. only she would think pink was nice
oh pink dripping pink paint scary bewarey pINk paint drops dont mix acra red and titanium wh whatever you do
whips a dollop to that pink what ya cant do with it, no painter all the way to
south america dares that pink little powerpackage unbelievable sweet, only harmonic with cobalt mostlyreally it would have to be surreal comp vp even then you know the cotton candy color that reel and faint color gadzooks pink imo try painting morely more, eats the rest of'em, will not sit there without swallowing the rest like i said cobalt is the only color standing up to it, and tropical hotdog lime can carry a line but not through the pink except if i make it a line of intense vibe maybe above it in pigment latin it means pink is a tough player on the colorfield inkpay
'it works for silk, and good on bombay saris' breathe its just pink just pink its not gonna kill ya almost maybe



interestingly enough the computer tries to learn how to speak english and the computer has need of a frame of reference according to its past beliefs and so the computer spells pelnt to say paint but somebody human interpolates so then you have to learn that alphabet all over again and now numbers and symbols too a post-techno neocromagnon evoluted language
and the computer just sits there and takes commands ha (as if) @U @U @Uh 10 (ah oooooooooo)

S.B.T. 69

just a little bird rush drama filler enjoy

S.B.T. 64

earth mandala


trees understand wind in the hair
the earth walks through space
the creatures tiptoe
over sacred hills
some wearing boots
others with no shoes
still others with no feet
we only know her
a short time her beauty never fades
she rises

celeste of starlight
plays
eternal bandwidth
tables of fruit dawning
over a sea and cloud trails
of radiant white
and rocky blue






all rights reserved c tipota kanenas

S.B.T. 61

visual sound waves in music
from the garage band to the street where we meet for a byte to eat

S.B.T. 57

“the balance of the print and the negative,” alfred to miss o'keeffe “is discerning of contrast”
“contrast is delicate,” she said clutching a sable wand, “a cezanne stroke is out of place and hides inside a bended space, it generates a compact pace when color overwhelms the eye and memory trails of seeing die reborn in mist-ter-y, oh my,” she taps her left ear, “the hidden tornado in a placid lake where under glass a labyrinth swallows lava rocks and reds”

twisting his window monocle polish on foulard cravat he swats at a moth unshuttered nerves she is a painter well his lightcatcher sets a palm exposure over the palette smoothing pigment through oil loops flooding across tilted planes a spongemark swipes, subterranean shifting reef reaching for lines in white, before it blends and makes bluegrey he catches phase radiation in threadthin filaments curled in titanium the tiniest most lucid he has ever seen
since harlequin mint and striped ribbon candy

“i didnt expect to beseech you to tell me painting on
blind faith would pay off,” georgia with a smudge on her cheek, dabbing a precision bonescape corner
“i never heard you follow blind faith or pay off” he said hands-of-the-clock hands-of-the-clock how-i-will-paint while she makes orange with cadmium red-deep enfolding hansa yellow straight from the tube “no not exactly,” she said, straightening the frame, “but i paint no matter what else”
“thats my girl” says he (he shudders at his playful assertion its not supposed to be that way she thinks shutters, like eyes, like horizontal eyes that blink open, and close open and close

down on o.k.harris street tibetan summer music festival red streamer fields wave like snakes in a comb
people there have a certain medusa pueblo dorje understanding
its exciting to see the stairs materialize in a magritte escher painting with no top floor brushstroke
capricorn goatfleet climbing nimble crevices, the river that leaves no stone unturned

“...because time is...
...different now
than it was before...
and now... you are
before and then you are after...” gazing at dust specks and starflakes
whistling off the top bookshelf he breathes into the air silverysoft translucent pearls that float dissolve above in silence settling over shoulders a warm forest green wind blanket

“now... this is a good orange” she says stepping back.

_____________________

S.B.T. 50

“oh Sotsi, i’m sorry, i can’t make it today, we’re going to the graceyard, to put a new hot pink pazzazz on the grandmother granite....no, it’s not that way you know it.....it isn’t sad chimes you know, it’s happy jingles and multimessianic movements.....but you are right i really don’t much like the place after all who really would well except maybe alexandrina maria de costa and her sister deolinda....but it’s a sacred voodoo in this family so i have to go or be forever unconditionally loved and what could be worse than that.....”

treeee-nah.......ohhhh, treeeee-naaaaah....a muffled radio voice from the wind thumps a little sticky on the clef, its here its there, it seems like a sound generation on random whisper setting, geez, treena thinks, that’s weird, it feels like it’s in my ear going out rather than the normal other-way-around, sound is supposed to go into the ear, right? ummmmm.....

.....treeeeee-naaaah..........ok geezus who is it............treeeenaaah yooooo know-owe-owe-owe whoooo eye-eye-eye aaammmmmmm “thea? is that y-y-you?”.....doughnut beeee silleeeeee my deeeeeeeaaaaar....."IT IS YOU".....i musssst tellll yooooo something-ing-ing..."i’m listening don’t worry this i wanna hear"......sometime-ime-ime-imes yoooooo have toooo take-ake-ake-ake a boat-oat-oat-oat......."what do you mean thea"........i-i-i-i mean-ean-ean yoooo have to crossssssss the great-ate-ate wahhhhhh-terrrrrrrrrr..."wow thea right out of the I Ching, that’s great".....jussst lissssstennnnn my-eye-eye deeear don’t get smart-art-art-art.......

treena shuts off the pug screen she was just watching and didn’t see
...thatsssss better-er-er, oh-oh-oh-kay-ay-ay dont make-ake meeeee talk-awk-awk toooo much-uch-uch i-i-i tell-ell-ell yoooooo kee-ee-eep your-or-or eye-yi-yi-yi-zzzz oh-oh-oh-pen-en-en and your-or-or heart-art-art eve-eve-eve-en-en-en more-or-or-or watch-ch-ch for-or-or the streamline-ine-ine munchers-ers-ers from-um-um-um the postmarked-arked-arked ass-ass-ass-tral-ul-ul trail-ail-ail-ail and last but not least-east-east-east take a boat-oat-oat....
"where thea"
......you know-owe-owe yoo owe-oh-oh me-ee-ee that-at-at-at eye-eye-eye didnt doooooo allllll that work-erk-erk-erk for nothing-ing-ing yoooo already-eddy-eddy know-oh-oh-oh......
"thats right i do"
......goo-ood-ood girl-irl make-ake time-ime-ime mer-reee-eee-ee and dont loo-oo-oo-zzzz the picture-ure-ure i had to turn-urn-urn over-er-er to get-ette-ette for yoooooooo dont beee a foo-ool-ool my dear-ear-ear but dooooo beeeeee foo-oo-oo-lish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish-ish........

S.B.T. 43

“That’s nice, I like the way that phrase moves,” on the piano bench beside me, Barry Manilow. He smiles like cherubim but he’s for real, he’s product-free and easy rider jeans, for the moment he just snaps his fingers in sync with whatever sound catches his ear, even with eternal jitter at the copa that’s more than fine with him, a regal and benign purple aura of wisteria. No viking headdress, no bloody kerchief, no binocular of presence, no wreath of wonder he's all there. His ichobod crane forefinger circling a particular bar on the score, he points to the notes, one two three and this one over here, he says “Here, right here, that is nice, I love that, I love the way the christmas bells mingle with the hammond B2 and the silver triangle touches the milky way. I’m trying to find a way to sing it, it could have lyrics, I mean, it wouldn’t be that difficult to layer a song that makes the whole world sing into it, kind of a kick in the pants.”

There’s a storm they say coming from the Bourne spy movies, an alert interrupts the radio broadcast, “...potential damaging winds and flood warning flood warning zeep zeep zeep
could cause electrical disturbances dzeet dzeet...”

Barry says, “I’ve seen these kinds of ‘storms’ before,” he's serious, marroon and navy. His eyes are intensely bright water-planets on the edge of a black donuthole pushing against the dying of the light. He looks at me and says “don’t worry, we’ll be safe, we can always find a way...”

You know I want to believe him. But I say to him, “Barry you keep telling me all these things, like about the thump next to the sizzle, and the fifth over the eighth with the little thirtysecondth flags, and how the moon has to be moltovibrato in a lullaby, and even how you appreciate the phrasing of this allegretto blend or that full rest part. but i want the seventh in the G major slide to A minor and end at C with a seven E flat and i have no way for sure of knowing it.”

He laughs, he's giggling with body tremor his chin in one hand leans forward, winks, the corners of his eyes are merrily rooster-like “It’s in the melody,” he says, “you just hear it. It’s already there, I’m telling you... What, you don’t believe me?... Here just a minute, I’ll play it for you.” he takes off his tan linen jacket, sits on it, straightens up a little and rearranges his spindle legs like an N hanging off the edge of a bookshelf, takes a slow steam engine breath. His fingers tiptoe but the keys ring like chimes with reverb.

S.B.T. 41

this is it. abiding farewell joystick, perfectly holy art thy claypit heart in antique shadowbox barnboard frame, aye, bowstring friends halo be thy name this is it. prenuptial leap of faith communion help yourself, feast first delicate baked-on century wax quillpoint vow sealed nostradamus roseline envelope.

back on the roadie bus “in my opinion there is no difference between the brainiac legbrace and lets do the broachclip mambo discipline, whereas both abhor whatever-it-is with ties to whatever-it-was ali baba as we honor the united laundry chute with dressingroom on the side. forty thieves and i will explain what they do in back of the icon,” justice of the peace monocle. “cherish is the word to divine my flash hologram keychain,” nada monkey of angkor wat, no cable no slate tabacky. “not the same, nor any different, confirmed by scientific theory, our pall-bearing aramaic numeral list will melt random secret ice chips in few inferno words with the little history book add-ons to the agenda (forklift). empirical domes understand a nary nary subject and object afar behind our wisdom change the channel programming,” collective namaha tomb of unknown origin

“yes that’s right so right a ducky royal dustpoem to you sumthin rubber but with many more xyz in a fine pearl kiosk from a previous lifetime. give the Tagore purple oracle pillbox to grandma’s wolf c'mon now don't make her steal it.”

“nothing to do with percieved nations or red rickrack but i tell you, this it is, do the right nothing else or according to bah bah lamb law i will have you return in a rubic cube.” echo creeps over the rainbow. “love thyself roost on a fence, never mind yonder toad though not always green to be shamefully aware of my own shallow-tooth promise to fix the plumbing. i will refrain from judgment here but i will say that you are a nit slack tangle with the harley indian spokes. it’s not just me, either or, as if (NOT!) .” ah lah deh dah dah. “brother i righteously chose to fight overflow tomtom for the market rate abuse potion that could feed thousands, clearly it is wrong fast fooding to tell that to my six year old borrowed blessing cinched-in-a-knapsack child” whale field recording.

“first, no need to understand, understand?”
“yeah i get it”
“so, what color is the same way light emitting diode?”
“um, well...” buttkick flashlight spontaneous combustion! crown of thorns erupting arson sunblaze whitewash Shiva baby Roo-ummm well- never to empty the perpetual slowmotion teabag or the broken bucket machine, bles-sed bee, buzz thy cement spray-on topknot, ye mighty mice join us now in reverent gymnasium ropeclimb syndicate planet of men.

thats all there is my friend lets keep th’folding chairs glancing at the hallway mirror. and the scribes book in unconscious alto sax, by golly one for the road, funniest sheep in a long time.

S.B.T. 37

we know more than anybody else if this ever had a purpose lost in the shuffle a forgotten public works this is a great job "it is pointless, its much worse than I thought"

you’re pathetic he said we’re both part of the what does she want system if you get one toejamb football in front nobody will say lost in the big picture.  "you’re out of control and slicing bread hysterical"

...the reason is i felt guilty for ruining the world," she bellows pump the hearth, "and I was just seven... (the numbers are huge and the factors in each set look jerkface, nobody in the whole world could do it mentally, its astronomical."

"astro nomical  astro nomical, that punjab theory a five sixty seven, how bout seven dumb drunk eight die eight get back irwin corey" quote dr. moot at the institute "by those numbers the room should be safe sam mah man hey right here look! here they couldn't do it! can you tell me the factor of 462 cmon lets go. (move yur scrawny ass i'm not through with you yet honey) 563 please give me a fivesixthree"

beep beep

shit we're trapped, check the floor - is he dead?
there's no coming back now he said he ain't jeezis

goood evening we have a shove-it absolute anyone who knows anything show
disguised as a master plan and so far it works

this...
is not my...
'now is as long as i say'
any more 

he staggered out of the elevator on the third floor

and rushed down to the foyer to bow with chrysanthemums and basically stand back up.

"sir, what pause will you do with the ruffian spillover packets"

fourteen cube ok the biggest center you can be is seventythousand five hundred seventysix, the tiki coordinates start the car

these numbers are markers professor they tell us where we are it worked ok all i have to do is add another six...
alright let’s go, out of curiosity maybe we can get the door to open get around the traps practical solutions

"well you haven't found any yet all you do is freak out like a nervous codependent"

over here, move it - thats not the way outta here damn zombic fate moves how come the sound of the door opens?

how many points do we have left, ollie? can’t concentrate, he’s destitute designing everything up lookin it should be
i’m glad you’re up and he’s not coming

of course he is.

no he’s too unpredictable he’s staying down down blanky

we'll come back for him later then

you be quiet (rusty door open) because i'll keep you sniffing their business tail in the sideyard

how dare you say that? you don’t know god help you claes you just smack your arms around here. is there anybody besides me interested in whats on the other side of this limbo rock

"gmorning - say no leave, all you has is shit enough to hang onto we’re gonna see the domes over there in a day, right? go 'head. WAIT What're you doing, you can't quit now, it's not your fault

"take the near road take 'em off outside the runway"

"you weigh like five hundred pounds," the flight attendent said twisting her blonde lock - right - only six months in that's as far as you go

hold tight i’ll try to swing you on the eagle bar, c'mon raise yourselves up i’m gonna try it out ok one more time

"hurry it’s getting heavy"

"what the hells going on potus where are you?"
i mean drop your gun your under arrest
heres a map that tells you where all the rooms are over there

S.B.T. 33

doctah, i tell you a 'friend of mine' could not hurt a fly even a wallbang nymph/past dreadful manna episodes of another world daytime serial drama. she admits measureable acquaintence with cicada candied tea and ceremonial fireant troopers watching bob hope crack a whip joke. she will even confess to sharing the expense of numerous thelonius monk tapdancing theory lessons with an eight-legged yoda two semesters. “you know evil wink what happens when you keep a pet spider?” I told her poke whisper but she can’t still - a free persian carpet ride p.s. i love you.

The precise plying of wood method demonstrates how you run the xm squeekbox 24/7 on the classical space station peter pan iron-on shadow born unclouded in the punjab he says. lovely, Jainist mayor’s niece owns the carved bamboo-handle yarrow-bristled malachite-powdered pearljamb ticket-fringe broom with heated sapphires and lustering ruby pellets, it sweeps away any meet-not-really-by-chance-shall-we-dance ayurvedic events on the path before footfall to waylay a grave battery an ant would deem significant no electricity.

he cocked his head, the growth pattern appears to be due to the variation in mitotic index, heart like wheel he says. It has been studied in the fibroblasts of two normal individuals and five who tested mannequin vacation syndrome, and the results repeated in the experiment several documented proofs, the ghost is smaller than what microcosm isn’t smaller than the wings to how you got over to evolve the campaign. with a one heterozygote at a time policy cubre libre bones at the bottom seep into the beyond alan watts timothy leary out of body experience part-time earwig moth he says.

S.B.T. 31

are you kidding do you think anyone would believe that? yes for sure we're talking about brainless for incitement, something like a bic lighter goes off and they become mangy sweatdrop rage easily shed, the armjab joke cirque de soleil darkside everybody loves a loser lets see how lost we can make this guy. he’s got too much family a powershort seat on the hill and what about the o’sheas and the fine lebanese rolled millet pickle types, they all need a voice (my voice that is ha) said the newspaper jack-in-the-box a journalist in polite company. permanent cosmetic accent grave eyebrow grey lint on his jacket. not just being a slapshot people poke the firelog, it’s that some of his friends would rather be there too, and forcefeed pablum manifestation down the throats of big baby huey sleepwalkers cloutish on whose existence can barely be covered with vaseline smeared on the negative, bent balinese shadow puppets made out of window screening loose at the edge. anyway as much as you can love an idiot you won’t vote for him right? so let’s put this out there and toast who’s gonna get burned, ha ha U R toast he said, he called them “asswipes” and as soon as it was heard well it was all over i mean you can’t ignore a word like that and it cojos up such a silly image of cabbages as soon it hits the ground they run maybe literally, lets be over your head fatso.

my poor thing i waaaaaant my thing is what the wizard is saying behind the oz curtain. i’ve always had my thing until yous ferrinners started making your traditional lasagna bagel urchin seaside fancies, ugh its disgusting cowgrass back at home, you don’t use aluminum in your spanish maja deodorant soap so you have this nonconformist smell and you look tall dark i mean short dark and wiry just plain creepy right ballguys um uh well? but i like that penelope cruz dame she’s a dark willow dream if we could have one. yeah. and let me know if any of his family talks.

S.B.T. 26

I can’t even look at myself sideways, never mind facing up, she said under exile. If it hadn’t been for the deep-fried carnival, sticky throat-burning cotton ghastlypink candy and the mexican girls pink stuffed donkey on her uncle’s back, the chainlink alloy shackle bells old buttercream popcorn stench and oiled biceps, maybe everything would have been different, maybe less pink. Turquoise stones set in dented fried aluminum nickel cheap stuff. Nothing good but it’s pretty in a found object junkyard wine party way. Footstep soft focus abstract echo glass chips flitter off the streetlight and click off the shoes alone alone in the magictime night performance astray cat wander.

Sometimes I see faces drift through my nightmare television, she told me tight sourstink room window on a distressed tumble rock backside, his phone the little knicknacks scattered across the desk he didn’t move or that his shirt was pink, he made promises unintelligable made him thin pride ivy league inaccessible. Act one smart confusion wrong monopoly hotel indiana avenue yellow the boot charm cutting through black lines arranged in neat squares.

How can anyone conjecture the prediction of who is that sunrise welt of sliding dew on the McCartney rose petal stillness? Or answer an offering to join a candles in the grouphug wheel on a spin around don juans castenada nagual?

Angela her name was, but she was alexandrina maria de costa and her sister deolinda. She actually asked me if I wanted to be saved, from what I whisper, from hip, she said. You can’t be saved with that hippopotamus she said. I said I like my hippo, he’s strong he has kerouac. Unheard of she said like an inca minstral, nobody knows if the tree fell. I don’t wanna be saved I said. Well OK but I will check out your captain she said. Why, I said would you do that, just being polite she said.

My eyes don’t follow the strangle notch pages, she said I use books for doorstopper, it’s more practical. Where did you learn that utile futile I said, huh she said. Where in the mad hatter’s pocket theory of correctness fit? what’s practical got to do with it. The milky way spiral about like that.

S.B.T. 22

modesty the dancer

leaps fate shadow

not spent of labor and loot, lumber

nor desiring previous days anything

to forward future replacements.

the peace measure, only morning

the mask of times intrusive

mens startle stun or soothe

her stasis en pointe through thunder

and birdcalls waving young rope

her bottle cage is no walls

drive dimension to disappear

heart stamp, stone of solace

and fall into the rough linen

turtle neck bootstraps desert

suspense strain the ear to attend

listen

not of want

to make man from music

the om bowstring

S.B.T. 21

Tawny Singleton lives on the third berth shoreline mammoth down by the veteran’s park, on the inside elbow of the bay. Her outlook is all placid ripples and jellyfish, white-bottom floating spoons and beach bum buoys. I always envied her laundry, the double-stacked coiled windows in the breezeway.

Yesterday she surprise clap one hand, carrying a leather pontoon handle, in it was an amiable shiver old grey cat. “She’s been longing on the withered post,” she salted pretzel, “I ought to know you might be western medicine on that,” she added prayer wheel plate.

Uhhuh, I looked at her bugle cartoon eyes, yellow with green fingers. We packed her into the ball bearings and slicked across the old storyland, to the smells like ammonia lily paw-legged nurse behind the strip mall brick dust.

“She’s a grizzly,” Doctor Rizzley said cat in the hat. “Let’s x-ray her pummels and formal doodah her pushpin filters.” A snail biter, she came out and said, “She’s an old buzzard with malfeasance lost babies, I can see the rouge rings and prefects of obvious.”

“I can’t have it,” Tawny spilled sweet sour chutney. “I’ll graduate her to the mob then,” I offered with unspirit dissolve sugar-water. I keep trying to pardon the escapable limits and keep the red fences from mushroom ears rot.

Back at the cement block dander house, old grey Elsa Miranda timid toes circled the foray and sniffed a comely spot. Geebo, a wild momma frisk, had a batch of boobins three weeks ago, she was shifting them from baskets and cleaning up the ripe refunds, and she was getting a sagged edge droop in her feathers. Two of the boobs were underage jam jars and I was struck out on dreamtime, sweating the small stuff on the borders, wondering if I’d dig the planters again, fire, candidas, mourning doves.

At golden fuzz daybreak creeping, I found the Geebo had given Elsa Miranda three out of seven pulsating droplets and there they were, swimming in the warm smelted skin florabunda, two bookends with a secret nauticus shared poop. I had to laugh at the fast plunder code. Not to swear armstrongs, not to sachet Chopin on the marimba hood top, these were two sturdy weather spittoons, and they know what to do with no human dodgeballs.

S.B.T. 20

She was not the brand label girl Mother hoped Giles would end up with. “She’s kinda braised oatmeal,” she lowered her eyebrows, and then raised them up, her lady Shelly to the teatime side. “A nice girl though, but pale and dandruffy”. “Oh do be critical vermouth,” Shelly winked at her, all rubine flush. “Well, OK, she dances, by herself in the mossy living-room, laughs chin floats, and a long mid-calf curtain.” “Upon the my oh my, as the Captain would say,” Shelly vermiculated the seedlings. “I just don’t see what he reaps in the culls,” Mother added, shaking her head open to bye bye birdie.

Giles well kept anticipated glassine barometer in this case, as confounded as Mother, but beheaded antipathy when the bolt hit the crown. The first time he saw her, she was jumping off the sofa, giggling possessed with newfound here it is. It might have been the way her porkchop hair flanged like shingles. It was a mustard rust. Short with no accents, “Just a doo-wop blob” Mother said. He cringed but then laughed at the dream of seeing her at the bazaar in the tartans with those moves. The clan would be there abrupt cold soup, melting statuettes over the cheese.

She was no wanton burger, that was the fact, but who she is unfitted his lacings. The only thing he knew for sure is that none of his friends would want to keep her, and that gave him a sense of monkey dues not owed. He could imagine her mothering his loincloth hostings and feeding the babies with dribble corner, she’d smell of noodles and dried fern. She’d be a lifelong projectile vacancy, always welcome to the wet swimmer goosebumps.

Giles wanted to see her in the peas and carrots, wanted to wipe the windshield with her dry foccacia pillows, wanted to see if she will meld in the flickering timepiece, wanted to have her epoxy stick flagpole, wanted to try to make her sunburst steam bubbles over the thick black solar cookpot. He was ravenously in a spell of bewitched blah meadow, felt like he could stick to her guns, she didn’t have the wherewithall to weave a hempen noose of any kind, she’d be like a breeze over the parchment.

“She isn’t special perfume,” Mother whispered, “but she’s wax.” “Must be true intestines,” Shelly mused flunk out. The porcelain gold rims brimmed with sepia. A little lemon and a sprig of calendula tarragon sperm bank. Crisp egg cookies in the irish tin.

Maddy, they called her, though there was no demon handshake and much lavendar aerosol. You’d not think african sheep dance, or blazed Milanese studs. Giles in the window bath agreed it was steel-cut oats all right, cooked to a slimy invitation of stewballs, with no advent bright color but just a plain loaf.