Andre Rison SKY RANGER Descending

Slow-Talkin' Jones Ascending to Earthly Delights

Now boarding. Okay,
Mammoth always faces away from the sights ahead
in subterranean situations as if reverse-zonking initiates,
nay, intoxicates baryons of tasing grace.

Hairy, wooly, like Florida orange juice-whirlpooled by
sombre or sober stick-shifts-of-glory, nor necessarily
four-on-the-floor/ like saying that Bloody Marys
and/or Screwdrivers are analogous-inert-systems
created by heart-meister Ben Carson and Babe Ruth
to deliver alcohol to the great unwashed.
Astringent. Hell, Mars needs women!

Trending, like a bee sting, like, like,
say, funerary aria for dying swan, like
muons on fezBook shape-shifting to conceptions
of mystic trawlers cruising only the innerside of a
gin-ringed tyre in Astoria. Or not.

Or fiery Aetnas of fascinatin' rhythm calling
Oral Roberts home. STELLA! Darkside,
parkside, any kind-you-want-side/ it's
still barcarolle to me.

Shane! To live in the innertubes
of those we love. Cucamonga,
Flagstaff. San Bernadino.

Hieronymous.


--mge






A postmodern artist or writer is in the position of a philosopher: the text he writes, the work he produces are not in principle governed by reestablished rules, and they cannot be judged according to a determining judgment, by applying familiar categories to the text or to the work. Those rules and categories are what the work of art itself is looking for.
--Jean-Francois Lyotard

May we in glory see...

ancient of days

I'm guessing that some of us will never forget exactly where they were when they first saw the TV GUIDE with Victoria Principal on the cover. Or, when they lost their first molar, or came across the Pelican paperback book about William Blake by J. Bronowski.

For many of us, it was in a 7-11, or maybe a supermarket, the troubled spiritus of Allen Ginsberg hovering over our bare, left shoulders. On p. 201, Bronowski asks "What had Pitt to fear from such men as Blake? What had Walpole to fear from Pope and Swift?"

Nothing concrete pops up regarding my first look at the Bronowski. Nope. And, lost teeth? I'm guessing, teeth come and teeth go, went-- in another world. Way back when... a quarter here, Kennedy half-dollar there. Another time, another place. Subtitle: A MAN WITHOUT A MASK. It's a revised edition. First published 1944. South African edition, "Sea Point, Cape Town". '44.

WW II. Another sunny afternoon.

On the inside pages, there are photos of exercise sequences. Red is primary, and tiny black numbers-- presumably, a boon to sequencing. In June 1984, numbers were surely more of essence than numbers are now, a century after the Great War.

And, to wrap it all up, at the end of those sequenced pics, on p.14: "Victoria Principal, best known as Dallas's Pam Ewing wrote the best-selling exercise book ‘The Body Principal.’ "

That's cool. LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS. Some/ have greatness thrust upon them.

Yeah, I mighta liked a comma after "book", but I'm good, et vous?

--mge

Joelle Biele

Almost Uptown Poetry Cartel. Joelle Biele. 24 September. Midtown Scholar Bookstore.

Most Arid and Craving Saturation, Sheen and, like, Green at its Peak

Like Chiang at the STOP sign. Like messaging the future, like, like that etheral chamber music decorated by nine non-alphabetical figures. Fire green as grass...

Most arid and craving saturation, satiety and reservation. Galapogos is more like fade to black. Swirling fiercely. Heavenly coffee. Black is black. Yeah, decantered and decantered at the edge of the rushing Kohoutek, Jack. Remember that farce? I discorsi sono sfuggenti. La cosa in sé, e la sua importanza per Noi stessi siamo gli stessi sperimentatori. Arriva al punto. STOP

Hyphens and Time-Stamps Just Before Dawn, and/or a Possible Fear of Pictographs...

Let's go. Okay. I have a new version of New Rich Text Document - WordPad. So... well, first of all, I don't understand why people so often use a hyphen to denote a dash. One can easily differentiate (and, believe you me, there is a difference) by hitting hyphen twice, which magically makes it a dash. Sheeesh! do you believe in magic? Hey, you can do it-- c'mon: make some magic. Dash a few off.

Secondly speaking, at the top of the New Rich Text Document - WordPad (note the hyphen [-] as opposed to a dash [--] {just a leetle overlearning}) there is a bank, a row of pictographs & words illustrating the various functions available to New Rich Text Document - WordPad (hereafter, in this riff denoted by NRTD-WP) users. So there's four bits in a row, to right top, that say (underneath a "representative"[my quotes] picture) -- Picture, Paint drawing, Date and time, and Insert object. The Insert object visual shows, i believe, like a small barbell with one end rounded and the other end squared. There's a little implied perspective too.

I haven't clicked on it, it makes me nervous. How can one insert an object into a document? Really, I'm not trying to be clever or picky, I just don't understand, and it makes me a teeny bit queasy. Is this obvious to you and yours? Has technology left me in the dust? Does this have something to do with three-dimensional printing? It's early in the morning, or late at night-- ‎Monday, ‎April ‎6, ‎2015, 4:31:44 AM (This info, after the dash, came out in two clicks of the Date and time thing.) Seriously, I'm not techno-phobic, I mean, I don't generally fear pictographs.

If someone out there in cyber-land knows about this Insert object thing, please explain. Thanking you in advance. I'm sure I'll be less fearful as the new day dawns. Does this have to do with the hour?

Anyway-- hoo-hah!-- there's Duke v. Wisconsin tonight, that'll be fun. It's now 4:52 and i'm already forward looking. And drowsier than, y'know, back in 4:31.

After the fact, misc notes: when I put this into the blogger composing box, it told me by a squiggly red line that "technophobic" was incorrect, so I put a hyphen in it & all was well. However I did not agree with the squiggly line under "overlearning", so that stands. It's 5:47 and all is well. ....S'okay-- Hi-Jinx in Pastorante, documenting spilt coffee in happier times, March 2015.(photo: Rick Kearns)...

How the Oracle Survived Caracas Traffic With But One Deft Pirouette

Yes! How that Oracle Survived Time Travel With One Gallant Pirouette and Simultaneously Photographed a Karmann-Ghia on a Skateboard.

That's life. Wha? I... began to lose my balance. People were sitting, swaying almost imperceptibly, on benches and blankets on the grass. Ears cocked. Strange breezes from Buenos Aires were insinuate.

Some of them listen/ed to portable radios. Time travels. Radio waves disappeared like print newspapers.

Like tales of shivering on another plane, another dimension~ 'cause you only packed a windbreaker, or something insubstantial.

You got to move! In this sierra, sherpas are starting to lean towards orchestrating a parade around you and marching down the avenue, batons in hand. The breeze and I. Time, time/ marches.

If these metaphors are lost on you-- listen up-- Hayakawa will guide you through levels of abstraction seldom seen outside Argentina.

Literally. Nobody wants a wallflower. I hate to break it you, but it’s true, And there is a samba in your face. Monoxide. Asphalt on the side, a cloud of danger.

Sensors may shudder when somebody pushes the gale button, but/ truth is, people like to have their sierra shaken up a bit. They want their buttons pressed. People want to be wowed by what they see, like when Diego skate-boarded the Queen Mary on a photograph. Awesome sauce! Surround-sound.

Kandinsky... Kandinsky sez colors don't keep to themselves. They blend. They shimmer, they move toward the light-- that, that glow of Appalachia.

Poignantly, now or later, one of the oldest lawns in the Caucasia gleams with dewdrops, white rain, and one/ menacing mirage. Yeah. Las brisas raras. And one menacing/ mirage.

Almost/ heaven.

Oba, oba!



--mge