Boxing Day, origins & poetri

Boxing Day, presumably, started in England in the Middle Ages.
So... Many scholars believe that the holiday was created
because servants were required to work on Christmas
but had the following day off.

The following day, when they were leaving to return to their families, their employers would present them with gifts (enclosed, like, you know-- in boxes).

And a good time was had by all.

It was Dan Propper's contention that, in a world of inverse enclosure, a matchbox might serve as a prison for the entire universe.

Finally, it's said that John of Houten is credited with having made the very first box back in 786. A.D.

See:
http://www.webspawner.com/users/morenewpoetri/

Bronze Age

Giant Sculptures by Dali Inscaped on Alps Mountaintop

.

Outside the Keystone Restaurant, time
stands still for a moment. Woozy, WAVY. Tock.

Tick. A breeze, not a sequence. Skop. Gu. Caesar Romero
blowin’ in the wind. Like a 50s movies’ trailer, stunning,
and riveting, but not necessarily fluid. CURT. Like
ebb tide, quicker than the eye. Wavier.

Yesterday, in/ aloof November, I sensed/ a rainbow. And
watched a myriad of woozy crows drift...
searching for SOLACE in a sunset. Wavier? Glass and water
function-- source[s] of creation and destruction,
life and death. Hey!
glass is a joyous and paradoxical thing, & as good a substance
as any to build a groove on.

Homina, homina, homina-- aquatic immersion of luminosity
and/or extreme purification of sin

& zo, I’m thinkin’ that WHILE, indeed, glacier flows/ to sea,
it flows, in declaration, like all frozen things, merely
back to itself, to its own source.

ABATING. Progression describes a series of actions which
are not organized into distinct subgrouping.
Both water and the past abrade the land. Planes of reality
are intangible, inevitable,
inevitable, natural, and mysterioso.

& a fade emphasizes the elliptical continuity of these needy
constructions, allusions. CLICK! Frangibility=
a kiss/ to build a dream on.

Naming Rage, Boldly Pushing the Boundaries of Confessionalism

.
A Cloud in pants, or, the naming of the parts. Or.
Where/ can I go without you? Yeah, yeah. So, I'm told that
comrade Mayakovski spoke Georgian at school, and with friends,
but that his family spoke a ton of Russian at home. Vixi duellis
nuper idoneus et militavi non sine gloria.

Da, I gotta tell you-- it's all Greek to me. Like Orinoco flow,
or the Great Vowel Shift that took place in the south of England
between 1450 and 1750.
Now, that was a sight to see. Yeah! I mean, rilly, like Orionids popping.

Okay, it’s just a little bit past the ides of October. And it's, like, truly paradisal to be near you like this. However. Due to the angle of early morning sun falling over mid-western highways-- the long bitter flare giving off that early morning shimmer has seen, or possibly caught, that very angle in its own gravity, and, yet-- the light from that sparkle may not transfigure only the blinkered and discursive effects of this dynamism in the manner of a sensing bough, but [just] might also contain the candlepower to elevate this "energy" above the echelon of skewed-allure, unleashing, then, an already maniacal lust to unravel those forces: to re-evaluate an intermission of the withering arrangement of sense in order to ensure the reproduction of an altered and innocent order which appears to carry an unconcealed, but obscure, faintly-visible juke. (Jive.) Sheesh! You got to move.



Yeah-- Skop. Gu. Recover. Re-assess sunlight fanning out in every direction away from the sudden view of acclaimed architectural design dancing across reflectorized hoodies. Windshields glowing. Brake lights repeating the second chorus.

And the sun also rises to an almost colorless, but precipitous modular grid embedded in a multi-lane parallel flash of metal. Traffic slows. And all lanes begin chanting “Man-i-fest-o” in a harsh, insistent rhythm, but --and, this is quite odd!-- they are, all of them, every man-jack-- thinking “Minn-ee-ap-oh=lis”.

O, all that glitters is not celestial. Or sagebrush. The problem is a matter of misleading labeling of data, rather than inaccuracy within the data itself. The trick is to learn to enjoy the ride. Jumble, tumble. Inalienable right.

Right? To come to love the angle. The chant. The clash. Yet.
My heart. Pants for you. Know I'm sayin'?

Oba, oba, oba! The story/ is in the feint.

He said, she said...

O, To Heat a Hamster Frozen in Yesteryear
Now & Again/ That [or as] Summer is Nigh


& zo, she asks:
Is THIS WHAT YOU SAID????

Without tail nor head, DOTT reports the history of two tentacles (!) become intelligent under the influence of an experiment of an insane professor, which to save the world sends to you in time through temporal toilets... Result, one buys a diamond for the poor gift in premium, one paints oranges in red "to create" a cherry tree, one adds the advertizing "any citizen must have a Marty vacuum cleaner in his tiny room" with the American Constitution and one filled dry a linen of parts so that it functions 50 more years in order to have a hot sweater later to heat a hamster frozen in the past...


he sez:
the Marty vacuum cleaner. A early sculpture I made
that was so elegant in design that, well, heck!
it was, like, a no-brainer for the damn suits
to make a functional copy & market it to the masses.
I mean, i was young & it was summer....

and-- here's the story to date:
Sans queue ni tête, DOTT relate l'histoire de deux tentacules (!) devenue intelligentes sous l'influence d'une expérience d'un professeur fou, lequel pour sauver le monde vous envoie dans le temps à travers des toilettes temporelles... Résultat, on achète un diamant pour le cadeau minable en prime, on peint des oranges en rouge pour "créer" un cerisier, on rajoute la pub "tout citoyen doit avoir un aspirateur Marty dans son réduit" à la Constitution Américaine et on rempli un sèche linge de pièces pour qu'il fonctionne encore 50 ans plus tard afin d'avoir un pull chaud pour réchauffer un hamster congelé dans le passé...

http://www.ciao.fr/Day_of_the_Tentacle_PC__Avis_615665




he sez:
This is a prototype I made during my undergrad years
which I sold to French industrial barrons for a Big Mac
& some fries. Large, mais oui. The photo is a little blurry
as it was taken with an old Brownie in my dorm room.

& she sez:
Didn't they market that with the slogan
"tout citoyen doit avoir un aspirateur Marty dans son réduit"?
Hey, it's a fine piece. I mean 60 million Frenchmen can't
be wrong. I sure hope you got some percentage in yr deal.
p.s. Here's a mound sculpture which might interest you:
www.flickr.com/photos/86512603@N00/693023006/

and the beat goes on.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

For many peeps, social networking has become as much of a daily routine as brewing coffee and brushing teeth. So you go on-line and find out who’s recently brewed caffiene and/or brushed their godddamn teeth. If your drug-of-choice has just kicked in, if you’re getting constipated, sleepy, paranoid, vexed, vibrant or virginal, hey-- tweet it out, right?

Just keeping’ it real, eh, wot? As real as Livelinks.

We all love Livelinks! It’s more exciting than online dating, and way cheaper than a night out!
Or not. A lot of people get addicted to Twitter or Livelinks or Facebook because
actual life can be so boring, when there's nothing else to do, like, say, during a mind-numbing walk in the park.

And some people just figure out that they might better connect with their friends without using a proprietary corporate walled garden.

You’re probably not the first to find it bizarre to have your personal life commercialized. Jürgen Habermas has some particularly articulate ideas about this. Take a look at “The Theory of Communicative Action. (AbeBooks.com.)” And you
might want to check out: “The Purchase of Intimacy,”
by Viviana Zelizer. What are you waiting for?

Ho-kay. Breaking up is to hard to do. But if you aspire to shatter the chains of social networking, wikiHow, a collaborative how-to guide, provides a helpful step-by-step way to, emotionally and practically disengage: wikihow.com/quit-facebook.

I mean, wtf, take tea and see.

Hot Luna

Le juste équilibre

Somewhere
in space...

Every picture
hums a story. Like Canary Islands, like
Norma Jean's loose white towel gently falling,
visual momentum enveloping
her back and sides.... Like thunder on Route 66--
ebb and flow,
twisting the side panels of modernity, of this exquisite
potato crisp. Tracing an Hungarian proto-arc round and around hinting,
teasing the form of the sensuous ****.

Bobby Troup lived to regret that he had, in a weak moment,
suggested that Édith Piaf was not a little sparrow.
Merde! Jean Cocteau, almost hidden by
a mass of splendiferous flowing drapery, took umbrage,
arranged in cumulous folds... masked
by the lack of
a moon.

Thin mesh
cotton cloth
hanging-- suspended--
from an unseen surface.