Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me"

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

---

What an awe-inspiring poem. It tied a knot in my throat, he wrote it in his nineties. HIS NINETIES!

Forty years ago Today

Died from liver cancer at Huntington Hospital in Long Island, NY, mostly due to his years of alcohol and heroine abuse one of the greatest musical geniuses of the mid twentieth century.

Long live JC

terror
shadows slithering
where is my temple
who is singing/she lost control
again
without concrete joints
our walls
are mere piled up bricks
diffuse
smudged cheap chocolate chips
'yo bitch you have something to say?
'bitch
he spits
on me
and there's no light at the end of this tunnel
eat his face
blood erupting from his cheeks
bite after bite
is the dog that eats dog a hero
or is the hero
one noble dog made of patience
who comes back home
tail between legs
lowered ears
and eats
his own shit?
between a hero that eats when he's hungry
and the one that waits for delivery
which one's the blind
which one's the prophet
neitherone?
which one has a college degree
which one smokes pot religiously
between the hero in the hat
and the bald one
which one is a better lover?
fingering
pride
like one who thought happiness was some sort of harp
and fiddled with expectations
dubba-dub-dub
gloomily out of tune
quotidian one-two one-two
when did this all got tangled up
tangoed up into 5-4?
I can't move my legs fast enough
far enough/fast enough
i can't move my feet
even though I'm wearing
the new shoes
that daddy gave me
but he doesn't know he did

if you squint/it doesn't look that much like havoc
It all boils down to
finding two beams to hang my hammock

summertime
here once more
twenty-four weren't enough
summertime
lunar eclipse
the whole world between you and me
my sun my moon my
satellite

summertime
sweat/tears/moist lips
summertime
apocalypse
psychosis/dementia
the whole world can explode
and
A Who are we
B Why are we here
C Why is everything so hard
A terror
B shadows slithering
C where is my temple
A Believe me/ we’re all
B In this one for the money
C And dying soulless
A We are so fragile
B Alone and nude in stark woods
C And on LSD
no
A I don’t remember
B Who we are/why are we here
C Everything’s so hard
so backwards
embracing life
on stream of consciousness
like hypnotized
one spoonful of shit at the time
staring blankly at the grey concrete creases
that constitute the sidewalk
waiting/mumbling names and messages
and opinions that I should have spat that one time
barbecueing
but I never did
high on life
high on the expectation of stop barbecueing
talking about other people
worrying
of going home/being alive
embracing life
high/on stream of conciousness




continues............

V-VII-V

Como funciona?
halele la pitita
tápele el hueco
con el pulgar y sople
dele pata al cien
espiche el botón rojo
échele agüita
conecte este con este
púrguele, quiubo!
suba esa palanca a ver!
encloche, encloche!
si oyó? juemadre, el mofle.

HAPPY ENDINGS

Finally online. I'll post a not-so-f'd-up and bigger version once I bring my hardrive to school. Then I'll be able to save it as a gigantic file that will look so smooth once on the internet it'll make people cry. for now, watch this shitty version and giggle.

Un saludo para mi gente en Churuhaco, wespa people! wazzaaaaaa!!!!!

Countdown

One zizillion (un millon de millardos mas dos) thanks to Lu!

HAPPY B-DAY WEASEL

DREAM

So last night I had the most unbelievable dream. Believe it or not, has to do with britney.


So is Britney's turn to present an award at this award ceremony. She starts her speech and out of the blue whips out an m16 and opens fire into the audience.
Una rafaga rapida.
Silence follows. The audience is bamboozled. Britney pants heavily.

Then, one by one celebrities stand up and open their coats, exposing their real proud chests to brit. Julianne Moore had a green dress to die for! She spread open her arms, the edges of a black chall in her hands, and Britney Spears smoked her. And several other celebrities around Moore who kept chanting 'Me, please! do ME in, Britney!'

I woke up not too long after George Clooney kicked the bucket.

I wonder what it means.

Epiphany

Mother-in-law, turns out to be an anagram for "Hitler Woman"

Makes you wonder...

Since I haven't posted anything in a long time,

Below is a waterfall of posts. Enjoy.

HOUSE WHERE YOUNG SARITA LIVED

PAPAROTZZY

Ok, first things first.

I abhor Britney Spears. I think the pop she once was the princes of, is the main ingredient for what has our society decaying.

I want to say something, however.

Leave her alone! She's crying for attention, but not MEDIA attention.
The kind of attention that paparazzi's give to celebrities can't be healthy, it is sheer pressure. The extents to which these cretins will go for a $20 picture of the bald child-mother are absurd.
This media attention is inhibiting her from growing up and living a normal life taking care of her children. This objectification of the celebrity will securely kill her, like it did with Anna Nicole Smith.

LET THE CHILDREN-WOMEN REST IN PEACE. DROP IT, GIVE THEM A BREAK!

That's all I have to say.

Christmas#2

stream of consciousness I

The road, dunes and I walking hand in hand with a flask of Jim Bean. It’s so hot out here I could fry eggs on my knees as I watch my thighs and shins turn the color of crabs and peel. A curve I turn, and in the other side a pony horse. His eye, the only one I see, reflects the sun and deep in his black pupil I see the one cloud in the sky. His lips, and his yellow teeth, have green stains on them, and he seems to be singing holy songs of the grass to the birds circling above his head like angelical aureole.

All four of his legs, very syrupy with sweat; they end in four stars of the mid-day --bright brand new horseshoes. I stare now at his neck, and the bunch of flies drunk with this pony’s life swarming and whirling above the puncture wound.

I put my hand on his forehead. It is as cold as a penguin’s would.

This pony is dead.

You look ahead, ahead you look. Feathers. Black feathers are your whole line of horizon. All in life are circles; you spawn from an egg, you grow, you lay eggs, you die. Your life is an endless circle. In circles you flutter around. Those ahead of you, flutter too in circles as the ones behind you do too. Circles, feathers.

Above you, always the sky. Under you, always a corpse. If you weren't an animal but a mineral, you'd be dirt. Cemetery dirt, because below you, below your circles and the black feathers in front of you, there's always a corpse.

You look the ground, the ground you look. A corpse. A once horse. But you can't see, all you see is the crimson fountain on his neck.

Blood.

Red is perhaps the only color The Layer Of All Eggs allows you to see, and the only way you'll break the circle; red is by far the only color you know how to taste. You fly in circles, you are black feathers and a long neck and one ugly face. You dive, you break the circle, brave, mighty, decided. You eat cold blood, you lay round eggs.

You are a vulture.

NO PHOTOSHOP

Nothing in this post was altered using photoshop.
Every picture got recorded like that in the camera after I pushed the button.

NO PHOTOSHOP # 2