so profoundly made….. a scramble after a lecture by kristeva @ nyu added/subtractions (& mischa mengelberg @ tonic)
so profoundly influenced by monk (s with habit) body is met a - ( things & words ) valse valse valse - sad-o-mask kit sic dreamless dream (only signs sounds sensations) so round the tick(le) tock on flat wall disruptive (non-narrative) remembrances divine taps - subject/object asthma //\\ ham sat this is a ruin & who's to say's not the first time potter has messed with the pot to authenticate history before it had barely be- come a part of it suffocated anal(y sis) is/is sissie issue i-mage = game geni(e)us that part of sheet that is covered w/music covers me this somewhat cold night monitors my rhythms strings my breath to reflectives it's impossible to re/lie integrity exhal(t)ed on the gritty plane substitutes sorrow immediate (3x) dada rula dada rula genius co-lapse other rehto(ld) < art aud > subs sorrow sub subsumed and tuted "'"""" thoughts -> \ > immediate source for joy i mediate sauce for joy celram celram lose their shape holding the divine w/in an eclipse of magnificence ( cathedral ) narrative = women's dress i.e. fashion excess(ories) ( stained glass ) zohar hazard i.e. topsy pts 1&2 as in autopsy/biopsy one unity bursting polytheisms ellingtonias monstrous signs ( search ) protean forms subject trials i.e. to beat to eat to be it to eat shit exploring exploding <-> UNITY shatt'ring cont(r)acts avechectic tool preserved tattered phallus perversed a tale of illusions cat as trophy co-presence coversion / spacial / temporal ( o rary ) celeste fresh as a rose w/out matter tho matter is absorbed & merges as in floating I-dents into a fleshy fol-roost he is in the world the world is in him ( a fowl roast - a foul roast ) SELF & OTHER other/self suggest sub/ject you jest flesh of patient transformed transference of identity transference & counter transference conch-et-conch complicated economy censured and sensor/ships sensing non-sense (ing) the body trans/parent the body polit(e)ic body of language body of businessman conclusions moments interpretive theory-peutics freud as be-bop doubt fraud as benev(i)olence permanence of S&M the max of cruelty & delicacy to mobilize the men struals min strels one & all ficial tact gently cutting the endless war of trumphs I conclude cruelty is a recourse to the words of life the dimension Men tion MEN MEN MEN men shun persistence renewed w/in violence when all there is when all there is is the is itself in ex-is- tence in a cruel cruel world in a cruel cruel time where faith & delicacy dwell like a flower carved into a restless soul. dada rula dada rula dada rula
steve dalachinsky kristeva at nyu icp orchestra @ tonic 10/04
de kooning ( morton feldman - 1963 )
tis form an empty sell/out these chairs from rumbling a morph created & why a hang tix over the foreground when no film's presented only thin flim
& a counter top immersed in standing a shallow shadow not unlike a window that shows the theme red - hem
this count that reminds one of choice of mistake of the renegade shot in the head
well he's dead now you say as my leg's start moving away from me
these bodies they are so vicious & fragmented surely they cannot all be his women
(this is what the silence tells me)
& of all the things i could tell you now only this:                  it is not as song appears              it is only the time between                  spaces.
steve dalachinsky nyc carnegie hall - zankel hall 11/17/04
eros denied (after a painting by jaxson )
he hung sharply      crossed bone white      squared the mirky forms of Joseph & Madonna molded against his body in mourning.
he hang across stretcher sharp......end.....in pain          the glassflat ghosts of Judas & Magdelene      shaped against his structure for redemption.
light      & infinite fading      his bones of flesh                  the backbone of light          his milky head sharply squared off          against the denial of his Wisdom & Love          weeping & crossing the visions with kingdom              Come          the green leaf turned to autumn.
the paling shadows of man & woman              brother & whore              mother & thief
Jesus      Joseph      &      Mary      Jesus      Judas      &      Mary all denied              eternally misunderstood              shamefully ironically misinterpreted          broken light in morning          in need of redemption & care      in need of uniting the bones with the ghosts..
steve dalachinsky was born in brooklyn some time after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of useless little wars. his work appears in many journals on and off line around the globe. he has several books and cds of which the latest are, trial and error in paris, i thought it was the end of the world, st. lucie eyes on a plate, and the forthcoming chapbook in glorious black and white and the e-chap arivin' in the okidoke.
No one understands the strawberries I have for eyes.
Point and cackle and defame.
I see strawberries in their eyes!
It Is Time To
They've been calling me from the depths with a lulling telephone since the depths pried my eyes wide. Now, I grasp the gold receiver like it's a dagger shimmering, crying out my worthless name. Voices pierce my drum. I hear the garble, yet it is quite clear. It is time to hang it up and me up so I can lift up beyond this dirty atmosphere.
Jesse Auchter's poetry and writings have appeared in Locust Magazine, POETHIA, Concrete Wolf, Morpo Review, etc. He loves poetic darkness and cats. His ambition is to be an underground deity, and maybe a decent painter.
I'm a Manic-Depressive with Alcoholism in full remission. I've been sober for well over a year. Wellness is slowly returning.
There is a temple of Porifera, a house in the ocean composed entirely of living sponges left to dry in the air when the waves receed and fill with brine at high tide.
It is a simple structure, designed in the form of a tower with a supporting structure of wooden beams visible only from the interior when one passes through a window made available at the monument's base.
From the dandelion covered cliff it appears to tower as a beacon of lichen encrusted bricks marking the uncertainty between sea and shore.
Entering its cavern, one feels the call of becoming, the lure to return to the water encompassed in the warm bath of amphibiotic memories of the womb.
Inside one feels the breath of the living walls, a change in atmospheric pressure excerted upon the tympanum and the resulting congestion of the inner ear. The crash of the breakers lulls in the muted cavity like the hollow music of the conch which fascinates children with its mimetic echo of the sea. The scent of sweaty moss and kelp left drying in the sand overwhelms oneas nostrils with the infussion of its pelagic wine.
Returning through the window which opens space and time to the transforming in-between, one feels that he has been reborn, remade, reformed, regiven and regifted to life.
In addition to writing poetry, Bruce Stater spends a considerable amount of his free time creating art. He still suffers from occasional episodes of psychosis, but no longer considers mental illness an obstacle in his spiritual journey. He lives in Astoria, Queens with his wife Lori.
Shifted minds burglars snitch never again eyes watching twitch come and go with everything I owe she said my writing was good, but widely misunderstood.
I want you to see beyond my body this time to be female like you I don't know why just you in a theatre you mime to cry
I don't want all this undenied attention to talk of thoughts is to unduly mention
Stealing love from the rich to give to the poor what's left for the thieves? nothing to add a tally or score winter's leaves.
Colin Van Der Woude: I'm a 28 year old from Australia who is living with schizophrenia and I use poetry as a creative outlet. I love using words to convey memories and feelings, emotions… I hope to one day have some work published and I'm on a mission to dispel any myths of mental illness.
there are two reasons for me to write when I have something to say and when You do by grace for grace I beg thank or scream maybe at once or more now my mind Your easel and mine is the white silence of all the colors of light my children home ( the easier three) the oldest okay and no new pain shrieking and stabbing through the old I simply am (not waiting) and You paint as You will
wanting the flames to hurt
as I slowly pull away from what temptation fools me into believing I want toward what You want beginning to feel aware of the wrongness of sin of the hurt increasing in my body (that I can manage though not very well it is not unholy) I sit wondering how long until my will wil help with the struggle to follow Yours and emotion will pull me too as I lie at Your feet and know that eventually I will also be aware that You are trying to pull me up
"The brothers were seated facing Joseph…they looked at one another wide-eyed, wondering what would happen next." Genesis 43:33 [The Message]
In what can only be described as a reality-denying maneuver he still insisted it was not-my-voice on his answering machine though I knew it was and had left him the message to encourage him after life took a merciless left turn down a dead end alley.
He left me his longhand affidavit cataloguing every reason why the voice on-the-tape that left him the encouragement about new prospects, new opportunities, a job where he might tickle or clap his hands again, why the voice on-the-tape could not have been mine.
For sixty days he painted black the chipper waves from the little box by his phone. It must have been a taunt that summer from another someone haunting him down like ghosts through the cornfields.
The voice was-too-friendly to be real, it couldn't have been mine, and the demon he created pulled his teeth out by the roots, tied his hair back in knots and wouldn't let go until the pain was all that remained of sunset walks and cabin-side suppers.
But still, the voice on-the-tape was mine.
If I buy you dinner, grill some burgers, invite you to wine and cheese, will you then believe the voice is-a-friend's and not the apparition of daggers in your dreams?