life. and numbers.

it is neither
short
like a haiku

nor
long
like forever

this is neither
unfortunate
nor
regrettable

but
1 year
365 days
12 months
4 weeks
7 days
24 hours
1440 minutes
86400 seconds

is either
refreshing

or
a real bitch.

(my faves)

what it's not. and the gratitude of my flesh.

it's not
a victim
of your shame
or mine

it's not
a symbol
of your fear
or mine

it's not
a reflection
of your arrogance
or mine

it's not
an armor
for your struggles
or mine

it's not
a billboard
for your truths
or mine.

it's not fabric to be stitched
clay to be formed
marble to be carved
a book to be read
a song to be sung
a cheer to be shouted
a code to be broken
a mystery to be solved
a key for a lock
or a
puzzle
piece
without
a
space!

it is simply flesh.

MY flesh.

and it is grateful.

for the things
it
is
not.

a break. and stitches.

My favorite poem. And the only poem I can recite...
The Red Wheelbarrow.

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.


by William Carlos Williams, Spring and All, 1923
photo, art: a gift from Tina, paper with pressed buttons and stitches. see detail.

#11

The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don't mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don't sing
all the time

The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind some people dying
all the time
or maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn't half so bad
if it isn't you

Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey to
with its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen
and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all
for a lot of such things as
making the fun scene
and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
and singing low songs and having inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
and even thinking
and kissing people and
making babies and wearing pants
and waving hats and
dancing
and going swimming in rivers
on picnics
in the middle of the summer
and just generally
'living it up'

Yes
but then right in the middle of it
comes the smiling
mortician


(poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from PICTURES OF THE GONE WORLD, 1955, as published in CONEY ISLAND OF THE MIND)

unstirred, unsipped sweetness.

on a saturday
afternoon in august
i was dragged out
and into
a warm blue breeze
saved
from thoughts of
an unplanted garden
unstrung beads
an empty frig
an unfinished painting
a long list of everything
and nothing
misses
strikes
have not
and never will
and that f**king chopped down symmetry
still standing
waiting to be watered.


for gcs