Friday, November 28, 2014

Truth


Truth is an underbelly
that not many people
ever want to look at.
It sounds good in the abstract-
people always seem to clamor for it,
to demand that they be given it
from those on high.
But when the rubber meets the road,
that is to say,
when the shit hits the fan,
there just aren’t a whole lot
of people brave enough, willing enough,
intelligent enough, to face it, to
deal with it in all its Awesomeness.
The truth hurts, and that’s the truth.
Most people would rather have
the little white lie
that helps them fall asleep at night,
telling them everything is alright,
rather than acknowledge the truth
of the matter, which is that
everything is not alright.
War is the truth.
Famine is the truth.
Poverty is the truth.
Death is the truth.
But people want to live forever,
so they hide from the truth,
they ignore the truth, until that
final breath when the truth comes
calling, whether they like it or not.
Truth is a destructive force;
it tears down all the fake plastic walls
that people build up around
themselves all their lives.
Truth can be a bastard and a bitch,
remorseless; without emotion, it
trudges its way forward through
time and space, taking no prisoners.
Truth does not hold hands;
it doesn’t play patty-cake.
Truth is a sharp knife;
it cuts with absolute precision.
Truth is the most powerful force
in all existence,
and that is why it is scary as hell.
Truth does not play favorites;
it doesn’t care about petty trivialities
such as skin color, political leaning,
or how much cheese someone
has stored away for a rainy day.
Truth is an Apocalyptic fire;
it is a final Revelation;
it is an end and a beginning.

Scott Thomas Outlar

Truth


Truth is an underbelly
that not many people
ever want to look at.
It sounds good in the abstract-
people always seem to clamor for it,
to demand that they be given it
from those on high.
But when the rubber meets the road,
that is to say,
when the shit hits the fan,
there just aren’t a whole lot
of people brave enough, willing enough,
intelligent enough, to face it, to
deal with it in all its Awesomeness.
The truth hurts, and that’s the truth.
Most people would rather have
the little white lie
that helps them fall asleep at night,
telling them everything is alright,
rather than acknowledge the truth
of the matter, which is that
everything is not alright.
War is the truth.
Famine is the truth.
Poverty is the truth.
Death is the truth.
But people want to live forever,
so they hide from the truth,
they ignore the truth, until that
final breath when the truth comes
calling, whether they like it or not.
Truth is a destructive force;
it tears down all the fake plastic walls
that people build up around
themselves all their lives.
Truth can be a bastard and a bitch,
remorseless; without emotion, it
trudges its way forward through
time and space, taking no prisoners.
Truth does not hold hands;
it doesn’t play patty-cake.
Truth is a sharp knife;
it cuts with absolute precision.
Truth is the most powerful force
in all existence,
and that is why it is scary as hell.
Truth does not play favorites;
it doesn’t care about petty trivialities
such as skin color, political leaning,
or how much cheese someone
has stored away for a rainy day.
Truth is an Apocalyptic fire;
it is a final Revelation;
it is an end and a beginning.


Getting on the Level


The most important
realization/revelation
I have ever experienced
was when I was struck
by the fact
that I didn’t need
to worry
about being alone,
that I didn’t need
to look
at every female
who was attractive
as being a potential
bedmate,
soul mate,
or womb for my seed.
Once I was able
to look at every person
as being just another person,
all the subconscious worry
just melted away
like butter.
Sweet butter, singing like a symphony
from the stars
into my soul.
Once I was able
to stop putting
every attractive female
on a pedestal,
I was able to rise
and come in contact
with the high sound
of the holy spheres.


In a Pinch


When the stage lights go on,
whether it’s full stadium lighting
or just a single spotlight,
to state it simply,
there are those who are ready,
and there are those who aren’t.
Those who aren’t
tend not to matter much;
they might get laughed
or booed off the stage,
but that’s about it;
no real lasting memory is created
in the mind or heart
of anyone who saw the performance,
or, more to the point, lack of performance.
They simply disappear beneath the waves of history.
Those who are ready to answer the call
come in all shapes, sizes and styles.
Some of them seize the moment,
come out with both barrels blazing,
and basically own the place
from bell to bell.
Some start off more slowly,
work the crowd, get a rising tempo going,
build up to a crescendo, and then
bring the hammer down for a
grand finale.
Some do just enough
to keep the edge on,
never rising too high
or dipping too low,
just keeping a steady tension throughout.
Maybe what it all comes down to is this:
Who is in control of the light switch?


Co-Dependent


and now everyone else is dead
and you are old
and wrinkled
and are nothing
without the others who are all dead

Scott Thomas Outlar

Sunday, November 23, 2014

SLEEP AT LAST

The night is charm school,
Is rent monies paid.
It's me in my armor
with the feel of wool,
pajamas floating across my body
like clouds in the permanent state
of about to land.
The night needs
only breath for substance,
and gentle stuff at that,
the ripple kind,
the rustling lake surface
that soaks away dirt,
buries sweat.
The day's like
a crime that's been committed.
Sleep is the cops arriving,
this body, the perfect weapon
with its chamber-full of stillness,
Arms crunched into my body,
I keep the turmoil
from getting at the chaos,
but allow space enough
for dreams to pass on through.

WHAT IF

What if
all that kisses and touches
should turn to stone,
Medusa's eye-print on the couple
in the car, or strolling through the park,
or rolling on the bed.
I’d still risk it, even blind, deaf, dumb,
as crippled as a statue.
And then if, frozen, we screamed out
inside ourselves, that cry lost in marble,
in granite, in a church wall, a building's foundation.
I’d shriek until my throat burned,
keep on believing you would hear me.
They could ship us anywhere:
one in city center anchoring a fountain,
the other in the wilderness,
crumbling into earth's catch-all.
But I’d still be feeling it,
still be fighting it.
Yes, these are the days when anything could happen:
spontaneous combustion, elephant stampede,
second coming, black hole.
Love's under threat
from ways you can't imagine.
You can't die of it
but it can die of you.


THE SETTING

Comes the night,
the sun sinks in the lake,
leaves a rippling scarlet wake.
It drops down over mountains,
paints the white tips.
It disappears somewhere
inside the windowpane,
streaks the glass.
Mantle souvenirs swallow it,
the orange Eiffel Tower,
the golden silver dollar.
My parents clink their glasses.
A star melts in the wine.
From gleaming rug
to ruby walls,
the room's a resting place
for fire, for light
On the coffee table,
that orb descends in photographs,
a most revered dwelling place,
grandparents’ ruby eyes.
Up in my room,
I capture sunset
in the pages of a crimson book,
bleeding Stevenson,
wounded Pyle.
The red world is brief
but beautiful.
For a time we live color,
thwart the ageless black.

John Grey


























Wednesday, November 19, 2014

DEUCE for Aurelius Piper      [Stefanie Bennett]
 
When he whispers incantations
Across the ceremonial pit
In late winter
The last snow-drift
Orbits the tree tops
Like smoke
On a morning stroll
Headed towards
Infinity’s skylight.
 
Praise abounds. The sun soars.
Raven gives a jocular
Caw matched by
The smiling Elder
                            Who has
My father’s eyes
                            And more.
 
With hands wide open
We spread
The wealth.
 
 
THE PLEDGE...       [Stefanie Bennett]
 
                         (The danger of the road
                         is not in the distance)
 
                                             Meng Chiao
 
He did not like the shape of its handle, nor
Suitcases that opened unaided at night.
Favour was furlongs apart –,
Sentiment, rot-wracked clay
 
[The way of the loose wristed potter...].
 
      Error’s triad may say –, “Those
      Who’ve never belonged
      Within belonging
                                 Cannot fit
      The given whole...”
 
Perhaps that’s why the handle held fast,
And the suitcase –, knowing
Pity –, swallowed
A stranger.
 
 
LEGEND             [Stefanie Bennett]
 
At precisely five o’clock
Each afternoon
Old aerograms, like
Blue-green butterflies,
Surge round her head
 
... Decades in front of
Yesterday’s false ceilings,
And betwixt the immediate
Flood-light’s
Festival obscura:
 
Such wanton abandonment!
The collector
Carousels
And grasps
The irresolute voice-strokes,
 
Bows and vows
A bygone
               Allegiance.
Who hasn’t been there (?)
Will be there
Once again
 
... “Good-night South-East Asis,
Turkey, Berlin...”.
Actualised, she’d
‘Drop the pilot’
                        If only
She know how.
 
 
THE CLASH       [Stefanie Bennett]
 
What simplicity –,
God is.
What simplicity –,
Buddha too.
 
The equation! Both
Exist –, make
One of
The mould –:
 
Who’s there
To be fooled... ?
Who thought up
The disguise ?

Friday, November 7, 2014

panacea
 
are they fresh or rotten?
ripe with love?
juicy with joy?
they polish your lips and insides:
the cherries of their kidneys, the peaches of their bladder
the pomegranates of their liver, the raisins of their heart
 
dressed fashionably in cellophane
perfumed with pesticides
soon they’ll be out of season
they desperately pimp themselves
to fill your fickle shelves
 
hurry and eat them
before they hemorrhage sickly sweet
please don’t scrap them
to be assimilated by eerie possums
 
removed with forceps
from a tree in labor
born to be groped and sampled
they marry some dashing vegan
not some bloodless omnivore
 
puree them into a shake
kindly imbibe
just don’t wipe them from your mouth
 
they live on your tongue and …
in your spirit.

James Mirarchi

Saturday, November 1, 2014

LEXIGRAPHY PASTE-UP, The Times      [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
She said
 
- "Trash is for
The lesser God's
Keeper."           
 
He reasoned
 
- "And tomorrow
Is back
Where we found it."
 
In the streetlight's
Hamstrung glare...
 
The shrew sits
Beside
The shot-glass
Prophet
 
... And
 
Between them
Eddies
The crucified
Air.
 
 
BLING 2, Documentation     [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
At world's end, and the voice
Of birds a pandemonium,
Something peculiar
Is happening to poets -.
 
They don't
Feel well,
 
Their appetite's
Abated and
 
The citadel of song's
Off-key.
 
Blows may follow. If
You will
 
Stay sober, stay
Serene -,
 
Play pat-a-cake with
The screech-owl
 
In God's sweet acre.
 
 
CHANCE - After 'Kikahu'     [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
Didn't you know, we get
What we don't deserve
The precise
Moment
Vulcan rocks
                    Fall
About-face
To tell it
The way it is
- A saffron
"No Chorus"
 
Sound...
 
 
OFFERING      [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
I'm to blame -.
I was born
A nondescript
Rhythmist
Repeatedly drumming
A tin plate
With a wooden spoon.
 
It can't get
Any better
Than
        That..., It's
 
What you do with
What you've got.