S.B.T. 378

smiley cyrus

I mean look, there's the whole rolling stone logo tongue thing going on, and the ancient cyndi lauper weird hair, a lowkey reinvention of self madonna-style, the michael jackson crotch/clutch, the new smiley vanilla rap sundae, and an up-do-date costume fashionista anit-blass-phemy.
the scary thing is PR for being fairly regular in the bigtime scramble for attention.  the axiom, "any publicity is good publicity" devil horns or not next decade she writes children's books and wears 1950's shirtwaist dresses at booksignings, hair in a french twist. maybe she'll lead some march against monsanto in farmers overalls or upset the media's sense of morality performing for the obamas in a girl school uniform with no undies. possibly in the end a snake dance with eyeball rolling frenzy in a voudou temple. you gotta love her.

BEFORE

AFTER

S.B.T. 377

mrs. pemberton

"wrote his name after mine all over my class notes", she said

"just trying it on for size, and conjuring an i-dare-you-to-dream-this-miracle image—

the kind you think up in a split second of opulent glory and then let spill like a pail of sand on the beach. i didn't know that then, though," she said, "it seemed reflective — a natural response..."

(pause)(cough)

"have you noticed that women use their own names or a name of their choice instead of the husband's surname?" she thought to ask right then "Joe Smith and Sally Jones, or Joe and Sally Smith. Sally never signs anything Mrs. S. Smith—it's "Sally Smith" or "Sally Jones Smith" or "Sally Jones"

—uh huh—so which one is the real Sally?" she smirked

"no demand there be just one Sally though" i relayed

"oh really? that's so funny!"

"what's so funny?"

"the idea of Sally with split personalities" she bit the tip of her long red-nailed forefinger.

"oh mrs. pemberton," (pause) i said "you might be right, the maximum # of personalities comfortable to sustain really is 3, but most people have 2"

"i have 1," she snapped back, "i'm mrs. pemberton."

"very cool" i said

S.B.T. 376

for mineral and dew
"by waters sent from thee"

a lake, a glassy mirror

we come to the edge

toss a white wishing stone

soft splashes

drop and let lips touch 

the twinkling circles

and quench the longing

S.B.T. 375

judgment

do you realize how far outside of the formula for judg-a-ment we are at this space/time? the Captain said incredulously, staring at the control panels, sweaty brow, making a re-ality-calculation

all that time: "why didnt I or couldnt i cease the nervous drumming" i asked myself in wonderment. at what had been, from here, looking so ridiculous (ly back on times past) and wondering if i should don the tablecloth and wear it like a scarf and say the god-almighty heaven with it

my guide says i needn't hold back, she says that, i open the tissue box.

Someone would want to cast a wan smile in this spot but not me, i won't do that. too much trouble.

The point was to try and break open a discovery of any certain depth measurement in the ghost trails, those wispy footprints, the little rabbit-hops, behind. Those observable signs to navigate backwards with.

 the trail seems to be going though the wood, winding around granite rocks and sacred ladyslippers. 

"You gotta be quick!" the rabbit calls ahead, checking his watch, making sure to be in sync with diaphanous skinny time, snappy time, moderno, in the flow,

even so— the concept can be stretched out to where timing is divine, so relax, baby, relax. 

Fleetwood Mac - Gyspy -Stevie Nicks

S.B.T. 374

The Odyssey of Mother Mud

the odyssey of mother mud

viewfinders fixed on the hill predict thunder
in gress in hale and exhale

scout and scale invisible fences

marking space between bluebeards,

and

diminisht morning fog largesse

dawning rumblegong celestes

spam the eternal bandwidth

the music stalks the sleep of soldiers

camped with pyres aflame
aromatic clairvoyage
dispersed by the spy-eyed commandant 

thermographic drilling

burns thru the maintop crust

fingering oily veins and

operant interagencies.

creaturedom

with chiller quickness

fly over fluted hills

feathers webs and feet fluoresced

a rainbow in the past tenseless,
a birdsong premiere

the bass notes quiver

instrumentally plucking

a confession of squints

and chuggy sticky cusswords

deities hands entwined,

postmortem r purchased in

postmodern unums

undercut by diplomatique dialogue

forgotten technicum and

valium of remotest sorcery

supreme tally of griffin dodges;

warming up, the gypsy banda 

behind unkempt tables of baccarat 

the accordion cries

the straightest why

above distant telephonic ringinginginging

cobblestone memorials

within earshot

of the palpable sage: guess what

animal crucibles and all the facts

roughened, and skimpy, decompose

bagworm sacks in the bellydrome

where poised aircraft abide, in lethal waiting.

de-ess the declaration, go ahead

mute the horns of variance

and fortify the rapport of blood

capitulate guncotton and 
say good-bye to immortal shadows
and angelical axioms

appraise her farmhouse effluvium

intoxicate her shake and roll 

her mudquake foundations,

reallocate her rotation.
with paradox

in a chorus of tearful anthems

for the squatters arcade hears cacophonous
music from the land of bendable agenda

retrace the tiretracks on the vegasdegas blvd

where magnifico blackjacks and bluebirds stroll

even just one green glycemic

wherewithall preconception

shivers me tamarind timbers

—a pan flute vibrates in the backbone 

hidden in hyphenated raw space index

bleach the lyric, hang the words out to dry

while back home in the gentle naturale

a windblown dairymaid a dearyard doe

with swallows in her blood

dreams of celeste music in

an epilogue of homages 

but watercolors blur in ways

that spill polarized reverse

and then they reembark with clemency,

samurai and

turbans and maharajahs

skiddooing

from futuristic sulphides

digging shelter deep enough

2 bug out anonymously

firedampend works misjudged

comboscillating "oh purple mountain majesties"

burdend and snuft to gray

over the disrobed hills

they sway with hearsay 

entreat with barbs 'n' rucks

making hurried sacrifice

prefrozen ruptuals

distorted w/complimentary casings

huggermugger valhalla gnome

sniffs the orange blossom

while masqued minutiae

with dragonfly forewings

fix me with a brandy alexander

made with cognac and the milky way

the vanished ghost dance and tommyhawks 

and fishmeal fifer loofs

after words, we walked the long road

from the village to rhapsodize

on what was stored in the archepelago

beyond the starry horizon,

immortalizing the ancient quarreller allure

aloofly wearing sandals
we discuss the issues unendingly

who envisioned

that one logistical time

the aspirator would be stringently

reinvented for below surface dwellings

tucked behind nagual pine roots

nobody wearing the darned empty nightshirts

at the end, semiaquatic phrases are sung

over drumbeats of truth

through the bandwidth in the dawning

radiant blue

evermore

S.B.T.373

why is creativity not always joyful?

you'd imagine it would be, by it's nature. but one of my colleagues once said "I do my best artwork when there's conflict in my life". And he said it matter-of-factly and without complaining, just stating the case.

in studying anything, like in creating anything, the old saying goes 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration, but I've always somehow taken exception to the idea that suffering would be required for one's best work, for instance, if the artwork were to have any soul at all, it's generation would be coming partly from intense feeling expressed through the process. But why would the feeling have to be about struggle? could it also be generated by intense feelings of joy? 

yes, it could, sometimes. still other times the disciplines in place, that of refining and integrating basic rules or principles, of conscious attention to detail, of striving for perfection, while keeping clarity of vision, and checking ego, and finding just the right touches, knowing when to stop, critiquing, etc. can be just plain hard work. um, are the spacelords who deposited enhanced dna on the planet happy with the result of their creative experiment? do they keep coming back in ufos to check and say "nah, we shouldn't have let that helix out of the cylinder"?

so what makes it feel hard? because you can "whistle while you work" if you want to.

desiring perfection might be one reason the work seems hard if one happens not to be maybe a completely desire-less unattached-to-anything-and-everything zen monk or something like that. or if one is as joyful as snow white and her friends in the kitchen, but as i recall from the fairy tale, things weren't always perfect for snow white either. perhaps the degree of perfection is the issue. "oh no no" she says "put them in the tub" which i would have said too if the squirrels were washing my dishes by licking them

the newly reworked "angels" 

in the company of angels, II

it's finally fun when it's done. 
ok, now it's done. i think, 
not really...
______________________________

S.B.T. 372

The Gyspy Cats




The Gypsy Cats


Here are the words, you can speak/sing along

Here come the wild gypsy cats

Strolling along

on the pathway in the wood

They wander without end

Searching out hidden dens

Yowling every night away

Prowling til the break of day

"Look at us leap for the moon

Look at us jump and

Twirl our tails around!"

"hello" we will say

"are you going to come our way?

will you give us food today?

we will fill our tummies full"

"Oh weeeeeee

are happy to be here

and never miss a single thing

As we wander on the wing"

Will you join in prancing

dancing, romancing

and purring, demuring

Come sing 

the purrfect little song

"La La La we're gypsy cats

La La La we're gypsy cats

we can't help but love it

the trees keep us above it"

"La La La we're gypsy cats

La La La we're gypsy cats

Hello we always say

Please put for us a snack-plate

La La La we're gypsy cats"

"Oh weeeeee 

are happy to be here

We never miss a single word

and we just might catch a bird"

Will you join in prancing

dancing, romancing

and purring, demuring

Come sing 

the purrfect little song

"La La La we're gypsy cats

La La La we're gypsy cats

we can't help but love it

because we're far above it

La La La we're gypsy cats!"