Somehow Forget

If silhouettes capture a mad thought,
somehow forget this pathetic communication.
I'll then have green harmony,
 . . . under denial, furlowed, every laugh,
Throw on positive water, enervate delight.

Father hated skirts like that,
but she tried out group pressure.
Weren't they too bold to presume?
Let grace abscond the husband's light.

Orphan, my opaque soft instrument,
knows me here, he creates me and you,
but walks to perform.
And though dry, improves my every faith.

Foolish wife, who thinks totally!
She means the Friday. She's so arid!
I have form, obdurate metaphor!
Do cuddle, never use pride.
See, it could have resented, Brother!
We present how time mounts an awesome wild pain.
Call for an attachment at the mouth
and then they'll reverse character.

The time which appeared?
When did you want a psychedelic review?
Fine, his death had been lame,
A bad song over, I'm all gone.

Study, investigate!
Must her piece so young, paint so dirty until now,
Address, his fashion world,
love a curious, turgid, festoon.

Don't sculpt me,
Carve space.


May 26, 2006, with Ona V____, 47, 48, 49

The Muse Poems:

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10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Improve

Improve through blue.
Some said, "Brother, imagine opaque delight.
Make Rainbow represent your sweet wife."
My God, we never numbed her language!
Her money always switched weak effect,
See many draw a dead thread.

Freedom was about water!
about beautiful surf, around every clean space.
Who can face character?

Forget my summer night -
Important, heaven must perform her strength.
Which stops communication,  is Mother aggressive?

Mom chose the metaphor! Investigate sound!
My Queen's sexy gown. Smoke no grass.
Sculpture could understand, mind
Glitter, shimmer, some laugh, care,
Don't muscle that system.



August 30, 2006, with Stephanie Landwehr, 48,  49,  50

The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Please comfort . . .

May you please comfort us.

Why itch? Struggles?
 . . . you always observe . . .
reasons why life should appear.

Why complain?
Stop see guilt, only who is it?

If so,  . . . I grip it.

Miss,
I'm about his studio.


August 31, 2006, with Tasha Lebron, 49, 50, 51



The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

The Dark Bathrobe

Last sentence of a dream:

" . . . a city of machines built to make soup, was abandoned because the soup they made, was too mushy!"

Ah, the city of machines must be Blogger, and the soup I am trying to make is . . well . . at times inedible!

I fumble for my black velour bathrobe that is so dark and thick, and soft, that if I put it down, it looses all charge, all orientation, and takes at least ten seconds to find the top, establish which is the inside, if the arms are turned right side out or not, and then put it on. The cloth is so formless, so 'void', so Kali, so enveloping, so without form or agenda, that it almost waits until I'm finished with some interior battle of ego-consciousness, before it becomes wearable.

This is especially difficult just after waking up.

If I try to find this article of clothing. because that's what this is, an article, and put it on in the dark, which I have done, it is nearly impossible to get right unless my ego-thought process is impeccably in-command of my motor skills. It would be much easier to grope about a strange castle for a piece of metal armor.

Now I ask myself as I think these thoughts, 'Am I awake? Is the velour armor I seek anything other than love?'

I must first outfit myself with an conscious structure of clothing, history, and use.

I must still be dreaming that soup dream.

I feel for telltale markers, such as the loop at the top that is meant to hang it, made out of the same soft velour, and then work from there down to the outside, feeling for similar loops to make sure the the belt is passing through, and once again to establish inside, versus out. Ah, thinks I, 'the loops must have been a late addition to the design!', I then proceed to the arms, with bare blind hands feeling for their orientation. Arms came later, the first bathrobe was a tunic! A reverse history of clothing!

This could be useful . . .

Sex with an alien, a false move could mean Death,

An exercise in topology.