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dotsJournal: Nocturndots
Mood: The Usual

Low the sun
Black strokes gives chase
the stars stand sentinels

Red the fire
New moon waves edge closer
Unseen but heard

Warm her skin
his arms a cloak
Filled with restless yearning

Sea salt and scent
From skin to lips Her taste
infused with its flavor

Darkness broken
Purple hues from out the horizon
the waves at their feet awaken

...Created 2010-06-22 15:16:51

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

Low the sun Black strokes gives chase the stars stand sentinels Red the fire New moon waves edge closer Unseen but heard Warm her skin his arms a cloak Filled with restless yearning Sea salt and scent From skin to lips Her taste infused with its flavor Darkness broken Purple hues from out the horizon the waves at their feet awaken

...Created 2010-06-22 15:12:55

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: contemplative

Is there beauty in the underbrush?

Where October leaves become the feast of roots
Where the worms toil like farmers under foot
Where beetles and brethren gather unseen
and make ready the dead, picking bones clean.

What beauty there is in the underbrush!

The roving earth miles and miles deep
but on the shallows of its face life knows no sleep
and each its part unknowing plays
like cogs of a clock, in fixed turns, unwitting they stay

The beauty of the underbrush is in the order of things.

...Created 2008-05-08 22:54:34

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

Seattle was cloudless for me.
the naked sky
reflecting Autumanl hues

The trees wore the ebbing fire
in their leaves and the breeze
climbed the hills brushing

along the strange fauna
and old buildings of Capital Hill
I shivered with nastalgia

for a place I just met
resonating in its frequency
with no effort at all

The red arms, like cathedral arcs,
in their strength made me bold
with reverence like a fever pearl

of red luster whose rarity
in my heart had grown
faint but prized

The hills and distant mountians,
have come home with me
Stow aways in my verse

I gather them to me
Like the reaper
the October Harvest

They will keep me this winter

...Created 2005-11-29 10:59:38

dotsJournal: the Cabindots
Mood: The Usual

The cabin, a cylinder partitoned to accomadte 150 travelers was a one class seater with equal privlidge for all concerned; the one equality money can by. It struck me that the wings span, at 111 ft, was merely thirteen times that of a bald eagles carrying 93500 it out lifts the eagle by 1:3500, so I wondered what would happen if you strapped a rocket to the eagles ass like in toy story, could I get a free ride to washington? What? it was 6:30 in the moring with only 4 hours of sleep!

...Created 2005-11-06 15:41:05

dotsJournal: to the airportdots
Mood: Thinking...

The airport had changed a great deal since I was a teenager working a concession service for TWA. It is a wondrous maze of names, trains roads and planes.

First off, TWA went the way of the dinosaurs, with facets of its former self seen in other species; Jet Blue now occupies its old haunt in JFK. The international flights building is closed but the domestic building now serves both functions. I have always loved the architecture of the international building and would sneak a peak, when I worked there, to take in its cold confident lines. Now it is a hallow ghost of a lost ideal.

Then there is the Airtrain. Some consider it a failure because it is undercut by buses and taxi's and its five dollar fare makes people jittery, but I couldn't resist, having seen it rise up from scratch (It was a choice between a 15 minute cab ride or an 45 minute J train to the airtrain excursion). The five dollar fare didn't scare me (though I am not much more then poor). When construction started years ago I heard the sound of the earth pounders in the distance from my apartment not too far from the Van Wyck. I saw it progress from pillars to beams and then rails (Friends of mine help make it work and made good livings off of the ghost overtime they handed out with favoritism.). I read the papers when the first train car tests resulted in an accident that took a workers life (they thought for sure that would end the project). They debated its merits in public hearings. They protested its coming with signs and picketers. They complained about the noise of construction, cracked walls, and shifting foundations. None the less, as if Robert Mosses himself were doing the building, it was built. What they neglected to do is rebuild the J trains stop in the caverns below the airtrain’s Jamaica station, so that the shock of the two worlds wouldn't be so great. That J train’s station has to be one of the worst in the city. The walls are barely standing, with many of the tiles falling off and a sense of decay overwhleming. The comparison is disquieting. The other is glass and steel. Escalators and shimmering floors. Open and free space with fresh bright clean air. The caves below seem like a permanent cloudy day and the other, a state of constant sunshine. Oh, it’s sad that the utopia that the fifties dreamt of has to be built in pieces over the skeletons of the past. It feels like the supposition of one layer on top of another like the layers of Rome or Troy.

The ride to the airport was trippy. The train in airtrain is missleading. It barely sounds like a train. Its movements are not chronicled by the sound of steel wheels over tracks but rather a wispy thrush of air being parted by forward movement. The J train on the other hand, is a clunker of staccato rapping humbled by the elegance of the airtrain. It took some getting use to before I stopped expecting the airtrain tracks to sound like subway tracks.

I went from the mundane depressed economic vista of the neighborhoods that saddle the Van Wyck to the intricately wondrous concrete infrastructure rebuilt around the airport to accommodate the airtrain's 10 stations that stand like Sentinels at every terminal and dominate the scenery even beyond the air planes and terminals themselves (another disquieting comparison). I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of how artificial this introduction to New York must be. From the look of JFK, a new comer might think the beast was misrepresented in media everywhere. Believe me, it’s not. It is like the human mind itself, brilliant and flawed in every respect.

The airtrain docked at terminal five. The double doors opened. I took an elevator to the enclosed bridge linking the station with the terminal assisted by the futuristic looking motorized walk way and then down an elevator again into the open glass building once called TWA domestic flights terminal five and onto a plane across the country to Seattle.

...Created 2005-10-25 10:21:49

dotsJournal: Planesdots
Mood: The Usual

I'm off to Seattle for the weekend. I've been celebrating my 30th birthday in verse and life for two weeks now (the 19th was the official date). Seattle is the last stop on this party bus. I don't know about the space needle, I've never been that kind of tourist, but I will be looking for poetry under every rock. If you know of any let me know.

Planes, not nearly angels, nor even solitary birds, they're more like gas tanks on a slingshot with skirts serving drinks and monkeys eating peanuts. I wouldn't bitch if I were the pilot and it were an F14, Seattle in an hour and half sounds dam good to me, but alas, I am but one of many, determined not to shake in my seat when a cold draft makes a choppy curve out of a straight line or the thousand variables of moving parts calls up the neurotic side of imagination like all those things we imagine in the dark. No, I'll be cool even when the oxygen mask's fall and the plane takes a dive. Just kidding, I'll be screaming like a bitch.

See you if I get back, hahahahahhahahaha.

...Created 2005-10-20 08:55:21

dotsJournal: I Am Heredots
Mood: Thinking...

I've worked so I can barely see
And I ask myself why?
Why is it 4 am
And your still at this clay
No closer to happiness
Then midnight
Or 5 pm

The mood sits at my feet
Not like a dog
But like a crack in my shell
A breach,
Beyond which, a vacum
Where the air goes,
So you have better seal it off
Mr. Space Cadet
Before I stop creating

I am here...

I am here
Because there is a picture in my mind
That has got my hands by the balls
Twisting my fingers into knots
(Painful little cramps)
With a hunger to make it real.

I am here because my chest hurts
And my eyes tear
When thoughts become
A tangible reality;
A poem
A painting
A sculpture

By pedal
At 50
An hour.

I am here.
Because I want
To feel

...Created 2005-10-06 22:41:20

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: Thinking...

The city in myst with Dark clouds
Heavy and over head.
It seems coo now
In the Autumn turn
Where From a distance
Its life is obscured
But in its middle
It pulses still.

Among the spires and towers
We walk along
By money cathedrals
Into submissive form

But pagan rebels
Sit at the empires door
Threatening to topple it over
To plunder its core.

...Created 2005-10-05 13:02:11

dotsJournal: Van Goghdots
Mood: The Usual

I think about him. Sometimes I think about his pain and how it gave him a bitter joy. I think about the delicate balance between the pleasure of creation as an artist and the pain that can acts as a toxic nunclear fuel for art.
It's not like the sun, with fusion pouring light into our sky, it's more like that dirty nunclear power plant up the river threatening to blow if someone falls asleep or trips the wrong switch. It is fission threatening to run wild.
The pain makes beautiful things. I call this beautiful agony. But how much agony is too much? And how much beauty is enough?
I wish I could have sat with him the way Gaugain did. Write him letters from afar. I would say to him "stay a while longer. This pain, this pain is the pain of genesis. Let it give birth to something else and let this new life be the inspiration for another tommorrow. Put the gun down! lets paint today."

...Created 2005-10-01 21:24:30