Archive for the ‘spunk’ Category

Timing

Sunday, August 1st, 2010

The timing is good
to pull together the
underguarded artists
and seers and musicians
and splash paint and
notes and words unto

a skyfull of Most High

while the machines smash
and devastate the ruins
in distant cities, and make
war on other machines - not
a living plankton or paramecium
in sight -

to tie it together and
elevate it smoldering
to awaken - in our consciousness -
the LORD’s solidarity
with the fragile and
the not-have’s.

Living roots punch
through levels of
industry and skyscraper
sized Trees of Life
shoulder aside the belching
smokestacks and furnaces.

Leopards dance, and
vine-cathedrals tower
in sextuple canopy. The music
I seek is creeping up
on us behind that rock.

Opening Up the Center

Saturday, July 24th, 2010

Opening up the center
with pliers, fly-boy papered
ceiling, candles scorch holes
in doom, Jimmy Page
levitates robed with
tele in hand up the hall
while we watch speechless,
amazed and our digits
get busy on the fretboard
carving cuneiform into clay.

Blossoms fall togetheron onto
sky-scorched slope, blessing it
with colors it didn’t know
before.

A cherry tree reaches
over the cliff and sometimes
the wind catches the blossoms
and seems them to places
they’ve never been seen.

An ocean story rebounds
through pillars the houses
were built on by long-gone
foresighted engineers. Kelp
twists like ivy around the
pilings and seagulls breed and defecate
on the concrete, raising a
glorious din.

Bend

Saturday, July 24th, 2010

Wrapped in glue,
a truth for sparrows
caught by spiders
too small to consume
them; rivers of blood
run off the bridge
into the flood
r&d procured
with a little help
from a wen
on the arse of industry,
el capitan maestro
del ceiling.

People are crying out
for help from God
but what are you doing
to help them in your sensible shoes
and bulging pockets,
fine-minded with thoughts ready
to dance, but not to hurt
and thus, not to reach out
because the leaning branch
breaks.

Why not bend first?

Stay

Sunday, July 11th, 2010

So I’m realizing, in the middle of a drive through a beautiful July evening, that I need to fall in love with poetry again. Not that the stuff I’ve been writing the last few years is void of it, but there’s been too much procedural about it. To deeply atune to the muse is where I must wend. That entails going back to my point of origin. Or does it? How about starting from the here and now? This spot, yes, this existence, this burning bush of punctiliar immediate awareness, this throbbing intimacy within-the-door-of-otherness. The gate of dreams opens and closes for stray or focused muses, it’s true. The being-here-nowness of the present gated sustenance. To open that gate? Intention, focus. Devotion. Love.

Starfire nebular wells of dark sweet chocolate interstellar metaphysical nowness! Today is the day of salvation. Today is the day that love stands on its head, for sheer joy of being. From within what’s always been it shares a warm wealth of self - the cords run well together, and together should stay.

So stay! And pray.

Swim

Sunday, June 6th, 2010

regale the gift
stern uplift
prim exceptions
to napoleonic deflections
the artillery lord of toulon
will play with a red baton

only if when why whither
scatterskitter
the bier sags heavy with
unclaimed deeds

as they remarked
the lack of tact
the catcalls that greeted
them

they thumbed their noses at
anger, and said

let’s be stronger
than danger,

and learn to swim
in love.

Mountain

Saturday, May 29th, 2010

Water runs in rivulets
along the tiles of the
cathedral floor, outlining
a labyrinth of the consciousness
only.

I am solely occupied with
pinching out a candle flame
and do not see the gargoyle
diving toward me for the kill.

Or he does not see me.

Or I am the gargoyle.

2.
Awakening on a hammock with
the travel chest spilled out
onto the lawn and maps and books
and chits and things about to be
rained on.

But the mountains breath stops
the rain.

3.
I awaken again and realize
I am the mountain.

After Compline

Sunday, May 23rd, 2010

A long drive through rivers of
self with a light at the end that is
higher and brighter than I ever
realized, the Jerusalem that
has always been the goal but
gets more beautiful and
intricate, exquisite, multilayered,
and ramified, as I get older.

I realized that there is no avoiding
these shadows, that I must push through
them again to reach that destination,
a flickering radiance on a stained, dog-eared
map that scores chunks of soul into hypertrophied
benificent angels, frees humans into more agent than
they were born as.

The poem strikes, a release of timed fire,
monastery call is the being,
many lives in the waiting
caterpillars of love and space
spin silken pain to golden
thronestuff, to share with
multitudes, and rejoice.

Splashdown

Wednesday, April 28th, 2010

The air is heavy so I
open the window;
the light is dusty so I
spread wings and
mount into space on
words of poesis, posing
as a god, a warlock, a tyrant,
a tough guy, so that when I
splash down in the pond out
back, the minnows will be
intimidated briefly
and flit school wise back
into their ancestral track,
and the ripples will cease
as the blue light tilts
incandescent night
to dulcet wine we love to speak
of but barely remember.

It’s better this way,
we can build a garden
around half-remembered
space, and make it the
source of future forays.

honest

Sunday, November 29th, 2009

brawn without vim
text without consent
vortex within a maze
of trying to find out why

you were the one
worming into my
mind with love and
wishing only the best
for me caressing my limbs
and loins and I damned you
to hell for it as I hated myself
for loving it.

Forgive me.

Tungulululululu

Sunday, November 8th, 2009

That Cardinal is roly poly,
fat and holy -
the transcending poet

burp, fart

-the poet in dimenuendo

You may ask, and I have received congratulations to this effect, that after the traumatic events of September last, it must be very difficult to come public with this story. But I confess to you, my friends, that I feel compelled to. I must swallow my pride for the public good. Because, you see, I believe it is absolutely essential that no human being ever set foot again on the island of Tungululululu.

Like most students of the greek classics, I had read Plato’s account of the sinking of Atlantis, and like most, had completely discounted it as having any factual basis whatever. When I came across von Daeniken’s writings on the subject, and that Atlantis had in fact been located in the Southwest Pacific, with most, I could barely stifle my laughter. I never expected that I would discover the horrible truth of the matter in person, to my own catastrophic cost.

But to start from the beginning, as beginnings should. (and most would, I am told, if they are bold, and worth gold…)

– Excerpt from Adm Doowrong’s 69 days on a cargo ship loaded with ExLax in the South Pacific

You’ve heard from the admiral how we crossed the sea bearing a cargo of life-giving medicaments for the needy islanders. I must relate the most singular incident.

I swear there were partially salamander-like creatures disporting on top of the lava flow. I saw them clearly for several minutes as the mountain-side crumbled and the molten river poured into the sea.
But it may have been the peyote.

- Captain Cloudstench’s Memoirs from the edge of reality, up matter’s girthy posterior…

Load bearing members

technical notes

Tungululululu is a small island of about forty square kilometers in the Southwest Pacific in the vicinity of the Solomon islands. It’s major historical interest was a naval battle -or skirmish really -fought in its main harbor in early 1943 at the conclusion of the Guadalcanal campaign between US and Japanese forces. Due to the presence of several wrecks on the sea bed only a score of meters below the surface, the harbor is a favorite haunt of recreational divers who are also attracted to the “roughing it” aspect of sojourning on its alabaster-tinted beaches and its verdant hillsides.

Local folklore contains several items of interest to contemporary mythographers. The famous “lava people” - a reclusive community of island dwellers who shun contact with outsiders and live in stone age conditions – are said to reside inland, but rarely approach the main harbor – Eremite Bay, leading some to speculate that there are only figments of the imagination.

A still active volcano simmers several kilometers off the northeastern corner of the island, and a more interesting, and enduring, cycle of myth has circulated regarding it. While the “Lava People” already discussed have been so named because of the jewelry and other artifacts they allegedly create from lava pebbles thrown onto their own island and into its bays by nearby mt…there are other stories circulating of a legendary race of lizardlike beings who live on the volcano itself, and to whom human sacrifice was offered in previous eras.

-

I called to that people and they did not come, rowing across the seas of storm but I told them with a typhoon that if there was no sacrifice, there would be no glory. But the devil people of the shining artifices ground their souls down, and many did not escape but remained in bondage to gods less cruel perhaps but also less imaginative than I. But those who did dare were pursued with vengeance across oceans of reality and dream. And I abode with them there, smiting the skulkers.

Until we came to an archipelago dressed on the stones of earth’s blood, a paradise on the one hand and an island that vomited forth the Sea Goddess’ molten self into the waves to build more of herself. And there were the long ships of the pursuers who came soon, but my people had fortified themselves and after a grievous war the longboats left. I knew they would return, because the pursuers had not been prepared for a siege. And they did return, but the scaled gods came forth from the burning mountain, where I all along had known they had been hiding and biding their time. They looked with anger on the pursuers who arrived with implements of metal to enslave other beings into harnasses of the spirit. For lo, though my yoke is hard and my burden is heavy, nonetheless I demand of my worshipers none other than their full humanity and their self-giving to a cause that transcends the mining of metals from the hills to enslave other beings. And so the dragons arose from the flaming mount and the abyss with their primordial and cruel magics, and vanquished the pursuers, allowing enough to escape to bring word of fell doom back to their lands. And my people never again saw the pursuers, or heard of them. And lived in peace with the dragons, who were their surety and survival.

Legend of the Fisher King

Let me tell you a secret. There are no lava people. The island of tungululululu is really just a resort for american celebrities who are trying to avoid Paparazzi. All of the stories about the island – including some of the visible phenomena – are actually a hoax concocted to make the archipelago unattractive. And before the x-files era, it worked. But now, with all of the interest in paranormal phenomena and hauntings, any suspicion of it makes a place an instant magnet for individuals with cameras. It will be very interesting to see what happens when the celebs are hounded off the island. Perhaps the real lava people will show themselves.

The janitor.

Let me tell you a secret. The story that the islands are really a resort for Paparazzi-fleeing rich Americans is a hoax. The real story is that the U.S., British, and Australian governments have a top-secret research facility on the islands. That explains the lights and the strange comings-and-goings, as well as the unusual nautical traffic.

Janitor #2

What I heard is that after the ww2 battle the USN found large supplies of radium on the island, and they started to mine it. The indigenous people -”the Lava People” are what they call themselves because of their creation myth about their origin from the volcano – were moved to another island and well-remunerated for their silence.

I know this because one of them is my grandfather. He was paid to claim that he was Maori – ridiculous because none of the family has any connection to the Maori either by culture or descent, and a real Maori would see through us in a second – but a few years after the war he came up with an alternate Polynesian ancestry and we now claim we are from Tahaiti, which is more plausible. But the truth is considerably more mundane, and less entertaining, than the fantasies.

I still wonder though whether my grandfather’s stories about the elders of his day having telepathic and telekinetic powers had something to do with mutation arising from their contact with radium and perhaps other minerals. But – as a professor of anthropology at Sydney – I am aware that the language of shamanism and indigenous medicine is mythopoeic in the extreme, and it is difficult to say the least to fit those emic categories into the mind-set of the Lava people, from whom I am descended, but about whom I know far too little.

– anonymous.

I first heard about the Lava People when I was covering a reunion of Royal Australian Air Force veterans of the Southwest Pacific campaign of the Second World War. An elderly pilot was telling a humorous story about buzzing some fishermen in his Spitfire, when one of the boats launched what looked to him like a red Very light, and actually change colors and strobed as it descended. He considered opening fire on the boat, but decided against it. When he landed at base, a mechanic of local island ancestry told him – offhand - “Those must have been the Lava People…” and that they were known to have odd powers and technologies strangely out of place among the surrounding island people. I began to look into the story – solely for curiosity’s sake – and came across the oddment that radium deposits had been found on Tungul. There were rumors of a US Naval base on the island, and resettlements, but a post-Monsoon season trip to Tungul one year confirmed to me that there was no current naval base, that the local Tungulians – “The Lava People” were very much still at home and eager to entertain visitors, and that there were some interesting war era wrecks in Eremite harbor, mostly visible from the surface.

Most fascinating was the fact that I had not realized previously that the local volcano – Mt. Eremite, or Erebus, depending on which English speaker you’re talking to, the indigenous name is unpronounceable – is still active and smoldering. It last went up in 1948, according to locals, but another eruption is considered imminent by their elders.

The Royal Australian Geological society had no comment even on the existence of the volcano, which I found odd.

- Dilbert McKinney, Current Editor of the Sydney Morning Herald

The Story of Tungululululu island was largely unknown to the world until actress and rock star Juliette

Lewis wrote about her trip there in Rolling Stone magazine. Her story focused more on the natural

wonders of the island and its accompanying volcano – across several kilometers of bay – and her own

impressions of being inspired as an artist in such surroundings than on the mythology about the island,

although her suggested reading list was tantalizing. But this was the point that interest in the island

began in earnest among the American public. This flared up like a magnesium torch when the entire

cast of an American reality tv show disappeared on Tungululululu. The indigenous people had no

insight into their whereabouts or fate, but the UN Land-Sea safety commission concluded after a

lengthy investigation that they had been kidnapped and sold into slavery by pirates. All of this was

disproved - and made ridiculous – when the entire cast showed up on a local island, and averred that a

faulty GPS device had caused them to land on the wrong island in the first place. When that season

became insanely popular in terms of ratings, it was speculated that this had all been a publicity stunt by

the network.