Tag Archive | poem

mooning

I know.

I did not make an equinox page.  Did you miss it?

Here we are again.  Dark days.  I mean nights.  I mean LONG nights.

They are coming.

I’m depressed.

Maybe I should move closer to the equator so I don’t have to go through this every year.  Otherwise, I’ll have to go back to being an unravished bride of happiness, i.e., art.  Oh happy happy art!  Music unheard is sweetest and in truth, beauty such as an odalisque’s may be eternally still, fading century-by-century to fall at last in entropic decay.

You may have noticed I don’t make so many scrapbook pages anymore.  At first it was so exciting to be out and about in my own obelisk.  But everything passes so fast.  Like starlings sweeping the sky time is, a hypnotist, and I, Odalisque, am hypnotized, with a soft focus dream-floating in all the flux.  Why stamp myself upon this flux of time?   Why afix myself to the pseudo-permanent?  Why art?

I miss crow.  Parrot-that-is-crow doesn’t talk anymore, doesn’t ask me where I’m going.  It’s obvious to all us birds that TIME is what’s going.  It’s a sensation, round and round.  Parrot is plucking her own feathers.  Maybe beneath all that caricature will step my black crow.

Crow would know how to party in this mad, strung-out scene.  We’re all exhausted and too paranoid to  get out o <f/i>n time.

eq2015_owlhereeq2015_oisstupid

OWL HERE.

ODALISQUE IS STUPID.

ODALISQUE!eq2015_become

YOU HAVE SOMEWHERE OR WHO TO BE

THERE IS A PLACE TO ARRIVE AT IT IS NOW TO BECOMEeq2015_mooning   owl_signature

 

 

 

My face is like the moon /the night grows long /long reign of moon.

Don’t moon about.  Wane.  So you can see the stars.

Here we go again.

It never stops does it.

 

–The Odalisque

 

 

 

 

 

pre/se/rve || e

August, die she must, minute by minute.   The hour, in July, appointed for tea now lingers too late for dinner to be prepared before dark.   Rush I must to get myself fed without burning some light.  Like most of my birds, I prefer to be active in sunlight; as the days shorten I slowly become overwhelmed by routines and chores, my working hours constricted. Imagine how most birds feel–fewer minutes each day in which to find their requisite calories.

I say “most” because though Hawk’s hunting days are waning, Owl’s are on the rise.  Owl looks forward to the equinox when time-dominion tilts in favor of Owl.   Owl pities Hawk, who had hunting good when the weather was gentle and pleasant.  When hunting is hard, and most necessary, Owl has time.   Hawk shrugs.  Always, somehow, Hawk, also, stays alive.

In Owl-time I will have to attune myself to other productivities, the less active and quickly satisfying.  The obelisk will be grimier but in dark Winter I’ll hardly be able to tell.  As long as I can keep the window clean, to let what light there is in.  I’ll remember how to attune to other chores, tasks of the mind cupping itsself around a dim candle, confronting cold space, recalling how to preserve, a word which looks an awful lot like “persevere”.  I will remember how to persevere.

handwriting_preserveperservere

Why do I worry for winter?  Now is summer, late summer, to be sure, but the flowers all blowsy, gold, purple and white, the colors of royalty.  August is an august time, leonine.  Nature, regally bedecked, processes nobly towards decline.

These days are pleasure-full.

I just paused to appreciate that fact–NOW is pleasure-FULL–and bright crow-who-is-parrot (I’m so sick of parrot, repeating himself), landed on the sill, dropping a red feather.

I like collecting the birds’ feathers.  I pick it up.

first_leaf_of_fallIt is not a feather.

Parrot-who-is-Crow brought me a leaf.

The first autumn leaf.

–The Odalisque

 

 

trade (dreaming odalisque)

[Shhhh.  She’s sleeping.]

[Listen:]

 

owl radio static

I’d trade this song for you.  Unless…it’s going to be remembered.  Who’s going to remember me?  Who’s going to remember you? 

Throw it all into the combustion of history.  Throw it up against the annihilation of stars.  Back yourself up in the cloud….racks of machines o’erheat the desert.  Before everything.  Powers.  Down.

 

kernel

This is my coast my shore.  The sea crashes, shapes, heaps, carries away.  My coast.  My shore.  Here a wrecked shipman would long for fresh water and hot food.  I weep salt and speak-sputter wet wood.   My house is built apocalyptic on sand there is no rock here.  Shifting sands.  Nomad- I  of miniscules, foot by foot my house moves, between dune and shore.

The jewels of my country are secreted.  Secrete/secret the thick glossies that mollusk thumbs fist.  Spiraled, scalloped, with fishy smells.  A captain landing here would find no treasure except what the ocean will break and cleanse.  My wealth is all paper on a standard of feathers and shell.  I’m worth nothing without irrational faith.

Here no ships but maybe.  Here no sails but maybe, too far for hawk-eye to see, one trawls, nets too knotted and tangled to sail home.  Better to be a boatman in the hollowed trunk of a tree, steadying his gaze, hand to a spear.  Better skim the deep waters armed with knives and spears, sharp and precise, than drag behind a powerful vessel indiscriminate nets.

Feed me.  I will eat gold kernels out of my hands and sea eggs, grey yolked.  No more nets, knotted and tangled, in constant need of mending, They dredge the dark living sea dusts up I will not feed on its bottoms.

Gold grain and grey yolks.  Feed me things that might be born.  Feed me the raw germ of wanting-to-be-born.

shore egg–The Odalisque

lead gray shadow

lead gray shadow

this place.  maybe elsewhere?  i don’t know.  somewhere was home.

my fantastic unbelonging.  now what.  i am always here.

crow morphology (ice stone)

crowmorph_record

crowmorph_loss_txt

Groove 6: [audible]

here there are stones.  stones that were books that were songs that were warm hands warm from weeping.  black silk worn deep blue by years of weather, macabre tablecloth on a slab of stone.  sacrifice who?  it is done.  stones are not hungry nor do they thirst.  flesh nor blood.

where the stones are there was a forest.

the winds are harsh and the ground stays damp without roots to drink from it.

night is wholly visible, they say.

 

[silence]

 

Groove 7: [audible, hidden]

Fret:

 stone time a dream marvel impetuous f/light streaking across night sky

deploy fire icy dust because core changed very little and still in icy depths

the mission ends [

deep cease]

Intro to  Crow Morphology

Previous Groove.

crow morphology (depicted)

crowmorph_record nowhere comes close.  he steadies himself on a stone.

Groove 5: [inaudible]

ROOMS

in childhood recall reading books that seal fate.  Selections will be displayed in the MUSIC ROOM (above).

TAKING TEA

childhood simplicity: a lover of artifacts.

LOSS

Mourn the commonplace.  Stitch the embroideries (depicted ).  Hold

the black silk, unassuming, over the beloved.

crowmorph_rooms_crop

Intro to  Crow Morphology.

Previous Groove

why does the phoenix (6–tap tap beautiful)

  1. phoenix is a one-note bird.
  2. that note is on fire.
  3. bedside candle.
  4. no paper no pen.
  5. can’t write down dreams.
  6. owl listens, omni-ambient headphones around omni-acoustical eyes.
  7. odalisque your pillow is on fire.  lie down.  sleep.

 

 

taptapwhowillbe

tap tap, who will be beautiful, flesh sockets packed with black?

so beautiful, gnarled stick

the gods prize whose skin whose eye?

you’ll find time harsh because-of beauty

youth pulped, cored.

want seeds.  want soil.

[upper aside]: cracks melt smooth like wax

[lower aside]: blush flame, so beautiful.  balance ruin.

 

The phoenix burns billet-doux on my pillow.  Read the last one here.

find me

I work at a desk, taking scissors to centuries of imagery and pencils to pulped trunks of trees, to assemble in my scrapbook a story I am making from my life.

It was Owl’s idea to post my scrapbook in the world wide web.   Is my scrapbook a carcass cocooned?  Do I mildly festoon the near-invisible trap of an arachnoid collective consciousness?

Hawk scoffingly says the only world-wide-web is an opulent cosmic cloth in which I, not my scrapbook, am one of an infinitude of jewels, each reflecting every other jewel.

Owl asks what kind of jewel cat videos are.

I think Owl is being a wise guy.

Black Swan is right now two-stepping anxiously and flapping a wing.  Black Swan wants you to know that CATS ARE EVIL.  CATS WOULD TEAR NOBLE HEADS FROM LONG, LOVELY SWAN NECKS IN IDLE SPORT.  Black swan shivers.

I don’t have a cat.

What I wanted to share today is some of the word searches which have directed people to my scrapbook.  Owl brought it to me:

  • recursion girl
  • overwhelm falling on them
  • do odalisques still exist
  • love images of i will be no more
  • how to make a crumple tree
  • converse teapot
  • sharp handwriting
  • gloomy poetries
  • surrealistic crow
  • near ocean crypt
  • drowning in the sea
  • fashionable owls
  • sea woman portrait
  • picture of the word overwhelm
  • fantasy fashion doesnt know how to fashion
  • night light princess
  • deconstructing feminist art

I love this list.

Do odalisques still exist?  Yes, recursively, in a converse relationship with our teapots.  How do you make a crumple tree?:  picture the world overwhelm.  I will be no more a  love image.  I’m a night light princess in an ocean crypt.  I found myself a fashionable owl, a surrealistic crow (and some other winged friends), perfected the sharpness of my handwriting deconstructing gloomy poetry, and drowned, am drowning, in what wild and lovely sea?

I exist I exist I exist.

I am real.

–The Odalisque

 

cosmic dream radio (deer crash)

Sleepy Odalisque.

Hello.

Here is her dream:

A deer crashed through the window.

 

owl radio static

 

Listen to her previous dream here.

 

city dreams

owl_handwriting_owlagain

owl on sill

 

 

 

 

 

ODALISQUE DOES NOT SAY HELLO NO SHE DOES NOT.

I AM SORRY.

I AM TRYING TO RECORD HER DREAMS IT IS VERY HARD.

MAYBE I WILL SHARE ONE SOON.

I AM SORRY SHE HAS NOTHING TO SAY.

I HAVE THINGS TO SAY.

HELLO I AM OWL.

I SAY

in a dark and dated hotel room with the boy you tried to kiss his name the name of greek statues the ones that hold up temple porches

get ready.  before a plate glass mirror get ready

to fly north for an event.

planes to catch in metallic hangars it is so hard to get to these planes.

city streets treacherous they all drop down into round-a-bout  bottoms like the bottoms of bowls.  bowl bottom is stable equilibrium says math class.  no catching a plane in the bottom of a bowl without a dose of irrational energy.

intellectual inadequacy.

i fly.  afraid to lose the earth.  no worries.  boy and girl are bound to earth.  i bear them.

skateboard sky.

sidewalk man in suspenders makes chalk mandalas on the concrete very colorful they are.

maybe he is the one.

that girl has fantastic boots.  red cross-stitched.

maybe she is the one.

will the bicycle make it up the hill, out of the city, to that dark road running home?  see road slope and curve beneath o’erhanging trees shadow trees where insects sing.

OWL sings.

we / land / ground / earth on a paved plaza.

event hotel!  off-center lobby.  elevators to rooms where folded schedules are forgotten.  long brown halls.  stumble upon an intimate, semi-circular hall where businesspeople in frumpy suits karaoke made-up lyrics to classic rock songs.  in one room girl having an argument with staff about what she knows to be true.  time to go home.  surely the event is practically over time to catch another plane.  for vacation.  girl can’t find keys to room where her things are and can’t remember where her room is but

look a forest.  a cube of forest bounded by glass. stunning concept.  balanced with fore-thought / but wild.  red leaves / peacock blues of ever-greens.  deep deep ground forest sunk so to see into canopy

technicolor forest caged between glass viewing corridors of event hotel.

here was well thought-out.  here is worthy of contemplation.  here be still.

owl_handwriting_thankyousigningoff

 

 

 

everything is up to you

owl_handwriting_owlhereowl_handwriting_hellothisisowl

owl on sill

ODALISQUE HAS BEEN SILENT VERY SILENT.

I HOPE YOU STILL THINK OF HER NOW AND AGAIN.  NO. THINK OF HER MORE THAN THAT, PLEASE.  THINK OF HER NOW.  AND NOW.  AND NOW.  AGAIN.

I WILL WRITE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU HOW IT IS SINCE SHE WON’T MAKE A SCRAPBOOK PAGE.  I WILL TRY TO SAY IT SO YOU WILL UNDERSTAND O YOU OUT-THERE.

coffee house you sit /imagine/ with blank paper and pen

listen music streams from responsive algorithms

listen there are conversations at tables with all chairs empty but one

talk talk about marketing /cause app art jeans/ marketing is a way to talk about money that sounds like sharing or making friends

listen gnat clouds of attention ghosting the nether-now of elsewhere and who

mesmerizing all the fingers on hand-held palm stones, light glass leaves.  swift fingers single shuttle a miniature loom weave /bandage veil fate/

or idly scroll as if skimming skin of a dull but distracting lover, heart battery in cellophane sleeve sealed with mildly-toxic adhesive

re pe ti tive         /pause/

fresh faces bathed in lightpalm glow as if looking down into unempty hands equals looking up at face of

dawn as if sky is

discrete on/versus/off

look up blank page

here is the future

it is very productive

what do you say

odalisque do you have anything to say

to the future

 

I don’t have anything to say to the past.  The past was no good for an odalisque.   Kindness.  Gentleness.  All anyone needs.

In this place you describe my unbelonging is fantastic.

I don’t know what to say to anybody anywhere.  I don’t know what to offer that is worth the time my offering would require for its meaning to become apparent.

Maybe I should be somewhere else right now.

But I am always here

I don’t know what to do.

Something else is not happening.  Elsewhere now was home.

Owl_handwriting_odalisqueisawareowl_signature

 

 

transparent barI hope you think of me more than now and again.  Think of me now.  And now.  And now.  And now.  Again…

–The Odalisquetext_fingersthatskimdesire

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