| { A Definitive Maybe } by Big Sway |
[Oct. 19th, 2009|11:05 pm]
sewn_to_all
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Life dangles in front of me like a carrot, supple. I'm a burro with the legs of an ant. When the clock spins around on MY face, I climb up to the basement through the moonlight. I am a diminishing return. Both of my feet are two big forms of we. Tomorrow is always a day away. Yesterday runs from my face. My posterior rubs up against the next me.
Your Greek Sappho runs around setting fires in hearts dry from the famine. The flood of blood and the principles of pleasure keep me close in a warm bosom embrace. Again and again the wind carries fragrances in and out of gardens and governments, changing clothes every few centuries. Naked as the birds, I tickle the divine. I take on the god and goddesses on a tight rope line from mountain to telecommunication tower, power-line to tree-line, bee to flower, pollen to collar. The dream ended and Monica scrambles eggs and neurons; firing day-glow from Blake to Dylan. A new wake dreams of dead leaves passed and pressed in a book of classy pin-up posters. Her bed is full of the blood of silence.
His appetite is insatiable. His arms embrace the air and bows of rain. He shoots a song through the cracked ceiling to tear down the vestiges of heaven from earth and not of. Her tears dig a hole in the terra to the root she believes in. The ants make a beeline. The bees rebel against the queen. The drums beat out the night's heavy mascara. The hips tilt and drink the ethereal groove locked between bass and her. The moon wanes and waxes for summer. Hair is pulled in play and lovers lose their egos in each other. Clouds of pink. Clouds of azul. A mist of soft clucking.
I'm not a man, I'm a poem, I can't write myself and away from the blankness I must be. Only the mess is for me and in the eyes of the youth I will live long and learn how to forget myself. Roses remind me of graveyards and white-washed walls in dirty villages with dirtier children. The bitter taste of deflated love gives me hope in a better tomorrow filling with other flowers and other florists. Wildflowers not cut. Lovers running over hills and singing unchained melodies of daisy chain gangs. I pray in a ball, "God, let me win".
Strange feeling of a thaw gnawing at my tingling flesh. Fantasy in a blue dress, dancing on a sky of diamonds on a far-off mountain top, calls and blows into my ear. Whispers of vespers and anesthetized , neutralized trivialities as mountains are moved and hearts uncorked again- flowing clear water from a clean well. An open vein. A trapped moth behind the glass.
With teeth and with days. With trees we are dancing poplars. Valley Oaks inlaid in the chest of the singer glows golden as the high notes are hit and the bottom drops out. This is the sound of now and everywhere. The willow weeps for unmitigated circumstances. "¡Ahora, ahora!" cries the sun. The flying fish jumps into the frying pan. The spirits watch with mild amusement as we run around our heads like they were empty factories. We throw ourselves against the wall like Spaghetti, to see where we stick.
Only perfection hides behind dreams. Hides out in the open; perfect all every moment. The new eyes and the old eyes meet for a drink and end up on different sides of the fence. Meaninglessness dresses up in a nice suit of meaning, selling us something we already have. The dirt is there to comfort always with it's couches of the dead and wet rivulets of ancient flowers. Wishes are for fishes and so are the worms after the rain cleans the air, which clears the ears for the peeling bells of the abbey in my chest. I cry from all the perfection. I laugh at my reflection and stand the mirror on it's head just to see who is who and I might be forgetful, but I remember what it was like to be old before I grew up. |
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| 2 new poems... |
[Oct. 19th, 2009|09:09 pm]
sewn_to_all
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{ Frag It All } by Big Sway
My heart, a grenade, explodes in my hand
Clarity; tossed to confusion again
Fragments lie, wet calves brain
Burnt cat hair, finger bones
Betraying the fuck-all in me...
It's not that I don't care, just
Sometimes it takes too much
Effort to be
When you're face-to-face with becoming
Spiraling downward to the ocean floor
Unsure
Or something...
{ Cecil Taylor Reads William Blake } by Big Sway
Cecil Taylor reads William Blake with a horn;
it's been rainy all morning.
Slicker yellow, barefoot, I'm baptized barbaric.
Kick splash!
Worms from catacombs!
I dream under drops on sheet metal drums
a poem by the ghost of Elvin Jones
about the clear coming of night, just right.
O! those dulcet tones! |
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| Submit your poems to... |
[Oct. 7th, 2009|08:54 pm]
sewn_to_all
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www.theplebianrag.com
They are some of the good people.
& go check me out; I'm the featured poet.
They've put 2 of my poems up already and, I am guessing
another 3 to come! Keep tuned.
Poetry, not Woe is me!!
--Ray |
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| { Lalito, Why This Deja Vu? } by Big Sway |
[Oct. 7th, 2009|09:14 am]
sewn_to_all
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Eduardo (Lalo) loves his toy gun
his toy bayonet
his plastic metal cry
his regimented bowl cut of the late 50's
Eduardo (Lalo) loves his denim
his russet leather jacket
his freshly cracking black desperado boots
his mother AND country
Lalo spends most of his Sundays, in camo, up a tree with a bead on the front door of the First Bank of America or the First Presbyterian church. Doesn't like being anything less than the premier in all areas & keeps tabs on those bent on denying his supremeliness. Per the norm, Eduardo finishes these limited skirmishes into enemy territory with unlimited enthusiasm for peaceful deals on pipin' hot pizza! His favorite? Supreme, Root Beer, Garlic Bread. All his weekend allowance spent at the local pizza slang-joint. He loves watching the line inch. He loves beating the post salvationist bliss hunger rush. Penny loafers shuffle. Suits with elbow pads flip like gills through the humid July body mass. Corpulence stuffing pepperoni and cheese till the shelves flow over; a fountain drink malfunction. Heads bowed to pray under the octagonal red glass-paned chandelier.
Lalo, when not piously eyeing the opium community, spends a majority of his free time distributing unsubstantiated rumors in the form of condemnation toward any animal that will stay still for long enough to outlast a terrible tirade. Dogs seem the most keen of his ironic abuses. Lalo also enjoys playing cowboys and 49er. He sees himself as a mesquite outsider. A safety. Six-shootin, rootin' and the occasional tootin'! He considers himself an 11-year old Urlacher playing out of position. Clint Eastwood waiting for his voice to drop like the other shoe. The dogs never take his abuse to heart. They are just hoping for some form of dried up meat or grizzled bone. They wrongly read his arbitrary reasons for wearing a tail made from a hangman's noose.
Lalo's mother is a young 29.
She pushes hot joe at a greasy spoon.
Her name is Rose.
Her favorite movie since she was a child is
"Back To the Future".
She sometimes feels like Marty McFly up on stage-
trying her damnedest not to disappear.
Lalo's pops is an out of work cop
trying desperately to watercolor his way to the top.
Ducky, as his son, wife, friends & all else call him,
is listening to Talking Heads' Naked.
When not in front of a blank canvas, Ducky writes novelty fortunes
on giant strips of paper.
Most of these get rejected by the publisher.
Scene: LALO, ROSE & DUCKY, sitting around the plastic-covered dinner table. Lalo's place-mat is a purple whale. The dinner is a devilishly handsome young meatloaf, crying bbq sauce from soars, opened. Obligatory baked potato or mashed pile of. Pitcher of moo milk. Butter. Boiled vegetables. Salt & pepper. An equine light lays on their electric skins.
LALO: (to Rose) I got me a score of 12 today; like days in the week, I did. Zeus' apostles didn't know what hit 'em. Me and Bucktooth Mackey scored us a cool million from both first banks. Looks like they ain't first in town no more.
ROSE: I suppose they've learned their lesson. What's a matter, only one chunk of loaf tonight?
LALO: Yeah, ma. I'm on call from Uncle Sam, he needs me to control my portions; for the greater good. Figure I need to keep at peak weight if'n I'm to be one of these one-man armies. The sky has many enemies even under beds. I'm keeping vigilant for dessert, too. Ma, did ya happen to make-
ROSE: Chocolate pudding pie with graham cracker crust!? You know it, big man!
DUCKY: Ooo, I love me some pie! Let us bow our heads in prayer: "God, DAMN! that pie sounds great. Thank YOU for all you've given us. You are the blank canvas to my cramped brushes. Let us snarf. Amen."
(After silent and not so silent eating of dessert, Lalo brings out his big news:)
LALO: Mom, dad, I'm fictional.
(Off-stage, we hear heavy machine gun fire and bleating sheep. CURTAIN FALLS)
Lalo is learning to put down the pen and pick up a sword
He writes his words in the black heart of hidden pirates
His words are carried in a violin case
tommy gun in a trumpet case
an incurable case of justice, this romantic
lets out a cry and points with his bayonet!
Eduardo (Lalo) loves swinging for the fences
ringing liberty's bell incessantly
& making prank calls to local government
Lalo jumped off of a Burroughs rag, but didn't make it much past the keyboard
before, jaundiced, he crumbled into prismatic light and folded into the fabric of everything
like a velvet Elvis come too soon...
Like two shamans passing in the night... |
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| Long time, no see, I know... |
[Oct. 7th, 2009|09:07 am]
sewn_to_all
|
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  cold | ] |
...but if anyone even cares to do me a solid,
go check out www.theplebianrag.com for I am the featured poet for the week
& leave a comment, so my comments aren't empty.
& poets, definitely submit with them; they are wonderful!
Tell 'em Big Sway sent ya.
Thanks, all you beauties!
--Ray |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 24th, 2008|08:58 pm]
sewn_to_all
|
I needs my place
where I feel comfortable making
the worst
shit-poem in the world
where no one has to know how truly bad it can stink
stale baloney poems
compost pile poems
trying to bear your team losing at home
----------
sitar flung from the empty bedroom
on crystal faery trebuchets
the young, flexible people painter sips tea
and reads the books of Christopher Moore
in her "looking for Mr. Happy" t-shirt
sitting at butcher-top kitchen table
commented on the light-
"combien beau!"
burners taking over San Francisco
in dancing twin banter
quoting, "Walter, you're just an asshole!"
the Fonz busts in dancing new samba
with old dogs wearing new leashes
(invisible fishes push buttons on wireless hi-fi
old skool high-fives and Lexus leases)
Günter Wilhelm Grass is making an omelette
and I am smoking grasses
drinking Negra Modelo on an overcast day-
moist and dreaming
of Henri-Edmond Cross'
"Beach at Cabasson"
Fort de Brégançon
in electri-plum shade
on soft downey beaches
I sit with 3 local boys and write poems
about the oceans endless nature to inspire
endless poems and end it
with class
taking the bottle caps off my third
(and even fourth) eye
dying laughing gut cracking busting up
snickering at myself
trying to make something that's making me
some almond, bitter gets train-salt
nailed in
hobo-chalk out with your caulk out
saves you off, on the back of road signs
and fence posts peeling red teardrops
dreamings of better margaritas and things
etceteras, flattered in bow-ties
and birthday cakes
sounding off like Polish verse
on the night's rusty razor
edge of beauty and death
decay in the faces of angels
one-day Pączki
once a year
in MIchigan-youth
russet from birth
still
burn me in California sun
and turn my DNA over to the authorities
feed me breakfast for dinner
of nothing but water an oil changes
and cute-smiling beer
tomorrow, work
and forgetting
No-Name and William Blake
hold a dialogue in my ghost-attic
pointing to the evening light of east and north
paraded like a captured animal savages
looking to escape on a cold pyre Seattle day
living on fruit and granola
off the grid for a few years
hiking, camping, beach-bumming
staying with family, friends
and in middle-of-nowheres for months
for next to nothing to paint
draw, point to things in and out
and develop and do all the things y'wanted to
time
c
o
m
e
s
time
shoots time in the flank
fall down tall-down first & fir forest
fur-burger soirees
for eager prom queens looking for American
Express
dreams
fall down narco-stare muscle relaxed so mind sprung
traipsing through trap laden edens
hoping for a sweater and quarter for coffee
and poems with exuberant strangers
manifest
transform
bloom infront of eyes
to new and exciting acquisitions
of cherubic assault rifles
with a rumble-pack
multi-sensory spray
punching starholes into blackskypapier
praying for a quick end
to a corpse of a plastic linebacker
banker tank trash-talker skims equations on
periwinkle lips-
lawn shorn
gladiator blind from fame
falling behind
sinking loose ships
getting the be-bop
license from a bum
drunk on a drunk on
habitual crank
someone
is come, one
come to cancel bad checks
bub,
hold your head higher
afloat atop your fresh beer
higher than never knows now just then
yesterday, poppies and strawberry jam
on British muffins and e.e. cummings' cotton bed
are laid out- symmetrical, theatrical, occult Cambozola
portmanteau
curses spun by the original gods
middle finger to sit n' spin on and not in the power
to write the wrong rightings within-
write in!
stay thin on the blood highway
I'm smiling down on lost poets again |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 5th, 2008|07:00 am]
sewn_to_all
|
I don't have the advanced browser capabilities by potential-crippling nazi brown-outs and hardwired capacity impotence!
The grey raisin will not turn over pop the hood how many c.c.s doc? What voltage montage to button-popping emergency response unit watts!
Running for disco
Making like a Frisco-bound
Freight-teen wheeler
Shooting whales in deserthighway 80
Forever Nevada
I forget myself inside the moon
Looking out
I leave my baggage at home
About going
My feet are hardware steel true for moving square ahead in this world of commodities and self-perpetuating spectacles, holding dear to my feet and 20 odd piggies
Coming down the mountain snow water warming freezer-bred shocking cutting through rocks and boulders over sand and under clover
The beauty of drawing 2 lines
From one end of the page to the other
And filling the space in between in
Solid or undulating
Energy dances with Control
Chance with Soul happenings
The logic of fantasy
The mythos of truth
Concrete abstractions
Where Lantana Camara meets cornbread and honey on La Rambla all the way to Columbus' dumb weight; wave after wave of pavement rocking me is the poetry of the hungry - for the hungry - by the hungry hippopotami
I resign |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 25th, 2008|08:03 pm]
sewn_to_all
|
i'm not even here
i do nodeggzist
i am the bellybuttonlint faery
give me your tummy taffy!
laugh like a tommy gun
s
o
go play in trafficjams
s
o
honeybarbeque bees sting arteries
snow
falls
one
by
one (ex-beyahlidocious!)
somewhere, iowa
i was thrown into the cornmaze
(fireflyguts lie
glowing science
boyplay
on strings
on rackets
in parks
on the river kalamazoo)
i'm not even here
you don't know i exist
i
might be
but
whatever
o
r
whenever, whoever
drink vapourwater
electraseltzer
combination locklets
headlocklets
hairbone hamlet productions
marrow productions, broken by association
t
o
yours truly, a psychotic
i don't even exist, no unhip sociopath to
push
me around in a wheelchair decay to day
pay to play
i
see
fumbled
understatements
of egregious psychoses
i am one of the cracked eggs
not even here
can't see me
don't even exist
can't prove a thing
can't prove i did it
be
be-diddy
did it
diddy-doo
the moon (distant stars)
caramel carsex pointe
make-out session on spin alley
free
ed
up
a
n
d mai tai is delicious
litebeer with lime mustache
handlebar banana seat 19 year old girlfate
that
is the power of the middleclass (tack, panache, plaster)
is the burbs of painless mediation
pointless readings
and joy
surprising by mandated "babbit" by sinclair lewis
at age 17
(don't even ask me why)
(don't ask me why, but i loved it) how?
the man DID say
"When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in a flag and carrying a cross."
and how can you not love?
a
n
d
how can you fake false teeth backwashtalk?
when did i get elected constable
of cold olive a.m.
i
am not
here
i am not even
here
i am
not even
real |
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| from aljazeera.net (wow*shakes head*) |
[Apr. 22nd, 2008|04:59 pm]
sewn_to_all
|
Democrats in the US state of Pennsylvania are choosing between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama in the race for the presidential nomination.
Clinton, who is hoping for a big win on Tuesday to keep her hopes of being the Democratic candidate alive, issued a threat to "obliterate" Iran if it launched a nuclear attack against Israel.
"I want the Iranians to know that if I'm the president, we will attack Iran," she told ABC news.
"In the next 10 years, during which they might foolishly consider launching an attack on Israel, we would be able to totally obliterate them."
"That's a terrible thing to say but those people who run Iran need to understand that because that perhaps will deter them from doing something that would be reckless, foolish and tragic," Clinton said. |
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| dear friends... |
[Apr. 21st, 2008|09:49 pm]
sewn_to_all
|
...to keep you updated
i will probably next to disappear here
on livejournal (for now, not worth my time)
but if you want some correspondence
shoot me an e-mail:
sewn_to_all@hotmail.com
--Ray |
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