Irish Latkah’s

In these Armageddon times

I make due with odd supplies

my cheese, potato’s, onion,

these will congeal and fry in my pan

sunflower oil and avocado oil

my vegan moments rule out butter

Olive oil later to give it taste and

to grant it texture

and then I will eat them hot

and wish for applesauce

 

Morning Cup 2

The day that seems to rise so gentle

like an old woman who knows how to administer

a leg brace

without hurting the broken leg

like some wind off the ocean on a warm day that is colder than the air around you

something that brings respite

for me with epilepsy

the evening is often more terrifying

I never know if I will wake up

where I will wake up

What I will wake up

Some days I blink my eyes and the world fades away

some days everything goes dark

But not today.

Morning Cup

A Plague Tale_ Innocence 2_22_2020 10_15_24 PMIn the morning the air feels fine

Like rings from my pipe

What kurt vile calls

“smoke rings for my halo”

A fine dusty light

Seeping through the yellow smoke

My cat moves in and out of dawn

One paw on the sunrise

Another toys with dusk

And the calm symmetry of night and day

Makes a gentle blend of shadows and sunlight

Reminds me of the golden eyes I used to know

There’s a thousand beautiful people

Often there one’s that I’ve known

There’s a new day rising

There’s some coffee left in my pot

I hold hope for small things

Dusty sunlight and Stars shine

Long Over Winded Wind Reflection

 

there’s no worries with the wind at the door

I too have been the wind and at the door

beholding and knocking and waiting to be beholden

Perhaps I no longer look but wander anyway

 

as the wind that howls

so too have I howled

but tonight I will not howl

because I am not in the mood

 

I have been in the wandering

and seen in the travels

that many people are also alive

and their cities are all the same

 

in some places a taco bell,

in some places a taco Johns

once I had taco join’s in an old north Dakota cemetery

and I didn’t feel no pain

 

besides the drag of cigarettes against my throat

and the knowing that I couldn’t stay

in such a flat land as that

I would always drift away

 

 

Memories of a Sunflower Field and a Car and Something Dubious

there is so much to say

by moving on

I contain archives

memories of sunflower fields

and sitting atop my scion

and next to me

something between

a cosmic sister

and an impossible paramour

who’s beauty and grace are tragedy

as they amplify according

to her own self loathing

 

I could Love her a thousand times

and greet each day with a new wedding ring

I could ruin her fingers with diamonds

and break her back with pearls

but it wouldn’t mean a damn thing

 

something about love was always beyond wealth

It was something about the song

always in her voice

that promised something

Actually a Monday

The words they fly from as fragrance that sweet summer sorrow evoked by Tuesdays

Although it is nor Thursday and not at all a day of Riverside Jazz

I am pleased at last to be writing

When I will it stronger

I will weave a standing desk Fallout76 3_23_2019 2_38_01 PMor is a filthy place

 

But I see babies walk around the streets on my block

Hollering for candy and trying to work the grill

They fail and are swept up

They are such small things

Pocket Gamers Lament

missed the raid,

pokemon is a wicked game

 

like capitalism

if you are not always making moves

you are so far behind

the game becomes an existential excercise

there is no winning it for you

alas you choose the red team

and rather than being socialists,

they’re actually truck driving conservatives

fiscal, social… you name it

anyways
I have to raid alongside the boys across the proverbial trenches from me

it damages my pride actually

but the whole is war is stupid.

 

Totally useless

A remant and a reminder of the true battle,

for xp…an exotic matter… in ingress

Drafting Process Depicted in Steps

I find some humor in these writing mishaps

I.  Guns of the Trees pounds the skull of the viewer with violin and instensity – mechanical depictions of absurdity through camera shots of coney island junkyards and dead machines in piles all seen by the camera – the camera becoming hyperfractured self in the realization of maddness.   Ginsberg’s poetry takes us there in the cognitive – that where that we reached via senses from violins or again the images of the machines, the sorrrow across the Brunette’s face.  As she asks, “What do you believe in?”.  And the camera watches her, but then move

II.  Guns of the Trees takes us with the actors in their “boats” down to the scrapyards and industrial docks of New York City even as Ginsberg reads out “Sunflower Sutra” – they are taking us to the “Tincan Banna Docks” where we see something of America having trampeled itself?

III. Abernathy Farm Interior

IV.             Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation, glorification of Jazz culture – the persistant themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junlkyard; while charecters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.  The film adapts GInsberg’s poem as per Bazin’s “Cinema as Digest”, Benjamin’s “Task of the Translator” & so weiter – aber what strikes me is this one scene in the junk yard and the confrontations of the individuals with the utter destruction and destitution of post modernity.  “Dark Night of the SOul” as it were, or as Kaufman wrote “never was a night that ended or began”  or simply just the terror on the Brunette’s face.

V.  Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation, glorification of Jazz culture – the persistant themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junlkyard; while charecters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.      Thus and by these means – of violins and of painful depictions of desperation – the frustration and fragmentation of charecterscomes to be in insane interludes – Guns of the Trees performs and adaptation of Ginsberg’s poem from text to film.  So too stands Pull My Daisy as an interaction of film and Ginsberg; this time with with the poet on screen while Keroauc speaks the party for the party from off screen,

VI.  Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation, glorification of Jazz culture – the persistent themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junkyard; while characters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.   Thus and by these means – of violins and of painful depictions of desperation – the frustration and fragmentation of characters comes to be in insane interludes – Guns of the Trees performs and adaptation of Ginsberg’s poem from text to film.  So too stands Pull My Daisy as an interaction of film and Ginsberg; this time with with the poet on screen while Kerouac speaks the party for the party from off screen,      In particular I focus upon the events that happen during the “Is baseball holy?” sequence at the house party in the apartment – in this moment we cross diogesis into dissolve cuts that take us backwards in time.  This affords us the spectacle of accidentally self mocking Prosthelytizers standing before impassioned masses (perhaps yearning for some greater freedom). Both of these moments explore the profound disillusionment and alienation that the subject experiences in post modernism – yet they also explore the genre of improvisation and play with the role of the camera on screen.

VII.  Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation [“first thought, best thought” (Kerouac 3)], glorification of Jazz culture – the persistent themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junkyard; while characters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.  Thus and by these means – of violins and of painful depictions of desperation – the frustration and fragmentation of actors comes to be in insane interludes – Guns of the Trees performs and adaptation of Ginsberg’s poem from text to film.  So too stands Pull My Daisy as an interaction of film and Ginsberg; this time with with the poet on screen while Kerouac speaks the party for the party from off screen, In particular I focus upon the events that happen during the “Is baseball holy?” sequence at the house party in the apartment – in this moment we cross diogesis into dissolve cuts that take us backwards in time.  This affords us the spectacle of accidentally self mocking Prosthelytizers standing before impassioned masses (perhaps yearning for some greater freedom) – the American Flag is seen to obscure a Bishop.

Both of these moments explore the profound disillusionment and alienation that the subject experiences in post modernism – yet they also explore the genre of improvisation and play with the role of the camera on screen.  Namely the exploration and interaction of actors with the camera; direct address is a factor in each films case, but there is more at work as well.  The camera travels into actors memories and perceptions.  In Guns of the Trees the camera can see the ghouls of capitalism traversing a cabbage patch landscape evocative of biopolitical depictions of the individual as proceesed and packaged for the perpetuation of that self same act.  At times the Ghouls speak with the most derranged of our charecters, the camera see’s this when other actors cannot.  Meanwhile in Pull my Daisy we have thise “holy baseball” scene where the camera hears this question that pauses both diogetic conversation (the actors simply stare out with vacant faces, some direct address) as well as the Kerouac non-diegetic narration.  In the stark silence the camera travels with the reverie of the Bishop / Wife / Bishop’s Crew – they go to a memory we mentioned earlier.