S.B.T. 380

Aero the Taylor

thankfully, they did not ask why i wanted this particular small rustic garden house. 

shaded with peach colored parasols, and a big flowered hat, an avoidance of sharing gazes.

but good men had not shown any urgency or request 2 unlock my secret, nor intervened to spin the fringe within the distilled shade - perhaps what ultimately grabbed me was the sound of no voice, and their startling willingness to smile and then just give whatever so graciously. 

(he simply snaps his fingers and tossles his tassles and it's done) somehow remotely gliding, a gilded thread in a burlap weave in the shrouds. with an exaggerated (like jack n. as 'the Joker') 

Jack Nicholson as The Joker

smile in some clownish bent of the stones logo. compared to mick jagger the eyes were different, he had eyes of a hawk. these are cat-like.

later twas a sparkler to realize that i was watching them the whole time, like a fox scouting feral cats, but i said, the ivory apricot cream was overwhelming! like a net of cloud filaments and they stick like flypaper

and i never think when that happens,  never yet have i had time to consider exactly what it is that i am 'doing'. Until now—hit me up again and see what happens — living in a cream bath house of flowered filigree, there's not a lot of good ways to explain what happens with time.

a few days later, the house arrived, a dollhouse really, painted pink and white and finely architectured to resemble a quaint frisco thirty million victorian homestead. i'd specified electricity in a dedicated line so these two guys in dark blue tshirts with belts of tools sidewound on their hips were puttering around, climbing ladders to the roof, pulling out the solar panel controls, zapping something, switching some wires. they did not speak in any way, simply were 100% into the work and that impressed me, as the dalai lama would, maybe a little less. but then, it could also be simpleminded to keep doing what you r doing when you know what u r doing and do it so well u r like a finetuned compass but because of that you don't do everything else...

the zen master laughs in my memory, sitting behind the desk, holding squiggly fingers to his head indicating a rooster crown chiming "Koo Koo! Koo Koo!" and it always seems a fine beginning

S.B.T. 379

screenshot from YouTube sidebar

notice the circular focus at center in composition of the videos' thumbnails and the clip in the middle resembles the cooking-pot above it.

_____________________

 
sri yantra mandala   gif by K.Bloom  

compassion

no thing was too small to deserve.

I barely see at all, such darkness 
the beam, thinner, a pinlight
enveloped in speckled shadow

confession: i swear when i'm driving.
waking sleep
pseudo-persuasive meanderings
small things like stop signs. waiting

time. the only reason. for not wanting to wait.
an inner tender dented fender.

none of this is about me anyway,
i've understood
health is knowing the difference between judgment and true danger.

compassion will be my baby's food
when i'm finished nursing

Om Mane Padme Hum 
 
 
sun gif by K.Bloom    


     

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