S.B.T. 284

guernica

on the right a mile down a fire

freedoms fall like cinders

his gun? why it meant a lot in the day

of ransoms for the whole father

easier to unthink wishes than narrate

standing kneedeep in a narrow riverbed

casting to catch the red-eye and give

up raspy whisky fairly straight

swore on a business idea

hey

elephant money for miles of monstrous morale

fat minutes shacked

together in a tight mancave spare p o w camp

sweaty morning scattered with showtime skiff

drunks and a lot of friendly dialect collected

asleep

a makebelieved hatter cussed out any reckoning

and cleaned up well later, looking ratty raddy ready

anyway, dying dollars spent over longer days

busted and shoved into ahundred trusted secrets

we hung out late and talked lonesome about

a ragged police door everybody went through

old regular goodness with no luck underneath

shooken we never wrote anything slim

every extreme from a greasy devil to the

name dropping of an hornery derringer

those around who lived never understood

in kitchen clothes respectably ignorant

nice breakfast tin

of hot-crossed bad blood genies

minutes passed till new hands ticked talked

lamps rolled and we hunted a quick forever

laughing a polite robbers oath

the light sent sure as candles

but something was left waiting

a number like howmany hogsigns

till nothing is forgotten tho better off gone

curious,

we pulled into mindtown

half past clay and white sand

the last fool looked at the coming mouthful

of broad rubs awakened in the nighthouse

stuck his ground with wanted wants

for a palace in which to lay uncomfortably

and came up against everything

six ways times 6 stock things drop

by mean books, time and a shaky rimshot

get going, get the country cabin judge and his fish son

they slid in and were soundlocked you know

away past parts mixed back before we won trouble

and cried out landishly

anyhow, the boy caught

a tale and hooked our supper

from atop mighty loose logs long and heavy

still on short notice

uncommonly beautiful brothers sleepy and wonderful

dropped crawled shed who knows?

we take miserableness warn out and bear

hardly a smooth olé from the bull

S.B.T. 283

how deep is the water

floating sensations
sealed in wax
like waning coincidence
like paper-rustling cats
a measure of moon pennies
in no cent bank
where we wade

in wait

love knowing bliss
some words will glow
wander about buoy chimes
the foghorn calls intent oh
Ananda sails so pretty
deepak raag in wind

gently exhales

slowly breathes in

S.B.T. 282

dancing w/ashley wilkes

la, la, la
lahlah lah luddy dah...

we r waltzing, me and the ghost ashley gone scarlet with the wind carolina marble nightshade deep carved velveteen by vermeer abreeziated in treetop T and ease

round n round

a wind-up dancing toy ballerina in the bottle of Bols the gold-flecked licuuuuure

same as atop precious kheer a cure for sure

served on bone china

diamond studded lacquer base kept in the secret jewel case

gothic glances interlock and watching from afar

a johnny masquerato on the ladder of my cohorts shadow

la, la, la
dahdah de duddy dah...

cameo dis appearance

languishing language in
langston blues

S.B.T. 281

stranger from merrywhere

where the thin line spray emanates at the perceived edge of water meets fizz/ native formula b4/ the cool blue air. nomansland comlient element

transposed boundaridissolvings and birth flags snakecrawl cross the 'film'

a complex convex projection w/same give/take

as eyes have when they

shake hands the first time on some new deal

in oyster colors like flamingo and china peapod

he smiles while trembling with fear or excellent searching for

something seen up close

dash 2 open the sewing basket, for a piece of a snipped zipper or a braided cord in shiny gold and metallic red, handtwist my hair into the same shape

with tangled ends round a thin tin of odd buttons w/a dent in the couture lid

is this it? i am asking, when i stumbled over a velvet pouch gathered at the top with twine and filled with various rare words he nods he nods at every little thing

all there or anywhere

speakin loungepowder like i never heard b4

oh yes, a boddhi, allknowing buddha child

enlightened ha ha thought makes me shout

'u couldnt be cruel even to save your life'

this inkling blinking thing

connects to the neoprene casing

his heart is dressed in, for deep seaventure

cold and dark one thousand leagues below sav ancient knowing

psychedelic fish pulse neon lines and bangle bars

phrase n blacklight tubulur rhythm there only a mojowoman

dares to dive

S.B.T. 280

Did your sun roof climb and slide "drizzlier a circle" as a child?

The notebook is dyspeptically potent the pompano at the prescore of the cycle

as it was when crenation was spoken

in the 1st autostrada

Did Each "subsequent violet s-file ever whisper answers or play changes in"2"

profile "answer according with purple blossom"

and round to a mellophone swearing awhatareto

beautiful circle "was as a shard."

The tune

where a rule

requires returns

the word simple "the file is interpretation, violet answers are "in2"

profile: the same was heard"

and vibraphones to

the questions in where end between

uncertain rhythm

uncertain rhythm

S.B.T. 279

on perfection

i woke up early this morning after having fallen asleep on the livingroom couch, with the tv on, the classic movie channel. and there, in low volume indistinctly noirish b&w, was an old newsreel interview with the actor david niven.

he told this story: he had taken a leather jacket to the cleaners, it had been covered with fake blood and various other sticky substances during a movie scene. when he picked it up, it was fine and smooth again, but there was a note attached from the cleaner "it distresses us to return work that is not perfect". he went on to say that it had become his motto as an artist. he smiled and brushed his lapel, settling back in his chair, chin up. all this before my first cup of coffee.

i am a perfectionist and it does distress me to do any work that doesnt meet the criteria. however, perfection as modus operandi can become so tight that freedom to experiment, to go beyond strict lines of creative reasoning, can become impeded. likewise from the opposite angle of perfectionism, if anything in the perceptual field is clouded then other issues become fuzzy. and one can not fully feel or see if even one part of vision is not addressed. the perfectionist in me will refer to the adage: even one tiny drop of black ink will change the entire color of the water in a large glass jug. one glance at a dust puff at the edge of peripheral vision becomes anathematic, while you can not wear blinders and still see clearly. everything must be taken into account, especially that which you are practiced in not looking at. i need to look at perfectionism and admit the semi-anality of it. so the exercise for today is in opening the angle. from a narrow 45 degrees or so to a complete 360. since perfectionism is in question today, i will be satisfied with at least a 180.

drawing from a painting by raphael

S.B.T. 278

Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small.

We haven't time - and to see takes time

like to have a friend takes time.

If I could paint the flower exactly as I see it no one would see what I see

because I would paint it small like the flower is small. So I said to myself -

I'll paint what I see - what the flower is to me but I'll paint it big and they

will be surprised into taking time to look at it - I will make even busy

New Yorkers take time to see what I see of flowers.

...Well, I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time

to really notice my flower you hung all your own associations with flowers

on my flower and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think

and see of the flower - and I don't.

- Georgia O'Keeffe

i can see why miss o'keeffe wants to live there.

scattered ruins ashgray true refuge.

issueless the rouge and pigment dreams of days and moonlit nights,

painting, four walls over backwards, colors traveling east no sound

changelessness

reflects the passing hour.

dawn, inca rose and amber fragments and the other, called amethyst dusk.

blank planes and sheer of the eye, calm, a longlasting walk in the sand...

one step more and

she will make it.

on her back face to the sky heart beating

little body features overrun by two pale shades

and shadow.

touch open close, all quiet, my mcCartney rose

Robert Vickrey:

'well i will always be an outsider in my opinion

because whether my work is any good or not it certainly is outside the current mode

the art world now says they want things to be cool

they dont want anything to be emotional.

and i would like to be emotional

and thats what i would like to be remembered for

the phrase that picasso used is

"art is alive

it tells us the truth"

which i think is a good way of summing it up'