Hart Crane Homeward Bound XVII

Suffering catfish, if I lived to be
the ass of a mynah bird, I would
mimic my fart and call it Art.

Got your attention now, in the bombastic
John underDonne way with Southern fries,
Note, Hart and I, we are buddies like Dante
and Virgil, we get along in the fantastic,
the Rosemary Jackson, kind of thing,
cept, it is in a kinda po-et-try
As our mate Owen Wilson says when
the day is not a bummer, just "living the life"
We are, pretty, stoked, it is pathetic
that the catfish in the Naturalistic
setting should suffer at all, but then the
duck paddling along like a Twain steamer,
above, mind, it has one, fixed on food,
As W.V Quine would opine, what would a
lion say if it could speak, not much, "Meat"
and thus our duck with webbed feet paddles
into the wide open mouth of the catfish,

So suffering duck, if I lived to be the nipple
of a wizard, I would conjure myself to flex
deltoids to the tune of a fretted dulcimer,

Got your attention twice, in the repeat,
the sit-com I have seen this so many times
I love Lucy way, or the zany Phyliss Diller,
who is still scooting along, fine thank you,
ordered with a take out of Mighty Taco
fa-ji-ta , note again for the deja-vu
that Hart and I, are poetry buddies in spirit
of , now I can't think of anybody - next
actor, dragged in, is our Tom Cruise dancing
the Latino shinbang as the Grossman, bold
as a sergeant bilko, we get along in the
William Empson manner, no ambiguity
about our relations, just purely literary,
On board the junk, sails open like bedsheets
drying on a steamy lazy afternoon,
we are sailing into the encyclopedia
will meet the odd cyclone and typhoon,
the odd maelstrom, and the odd American Dream,

Espiritualidade não é só rezar e meditar. Você precisa agir

Espiritualidade não é só rezar e meditar. Você precisa agir

Paulo Coelho June 7 2010

The sunrise takes the Earth each morning

as if by surprise, those caught unawares

in the middle of meditation, absorbed inside

the metaphysics of consciousness, humming

a mantra or releasing their energy, in prayers,

as the sun comes up, its mass large upon the horizon

coloring the skies with the act of rising an equation

that the universe calculates to the nth degree

there we see the good and righteous locked in spirit

and by the time they waken to life, it is then the sunset.

Indifference

the giraudon cover
garish with odalisque
and what seems like funeral
flowers, the foreword by
Jean-Paul Sartre
so we have a cheap copy
of Les Fleurs du Mal
with the Nadar mugshot on back
it rests near the keyboard
like a serpent coiled to spring
its navy blue tongue to sense
what is my indifference
to the awkward writing
that has gone under the radar
to be unpublished, gone to rot
like the garlic sprouting a green
shoot, then turning in chimeric
process, into the decadence
of another state, and folded
neatly inside the descriptive
phase, the countless personae
an interaction with You
and a message for the other you
we are like two books left on a table
read only our internal narratives
our lives and loves, between covers,
and never quite manage to overcome
the gap of reading outside of ourselves
perhaps it is because
indifference
sets
in

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XVI

Lay, boom, boom, lay

Lay, boom, boom, lay

So the oil drums do play

So the oil drums do play

In the sea, on a voyage

In the sea, on a voyage

the reverie of Vachel

Lindsay, we do pay

a courtesy call, a study

of the perverse, as we

Hart and I, have no truck

with racial beat, we reverse

the flow of hate, and

Lay, boom, boom, lay

Lay, boom, boom, lay

ain't that a mantra

of the 20th century

war and peace, sex and

violence, Hell, Hart, we could

do better than perplex

the reader with high falutin

games, have Chuck Baudelaire,

wearing an ostrich feather

looking all chic and ready

for a voyage, inviting us

to love, Looove,

look we - we have them on,

kid them, rag them,

take them on a voyage,

where reader's squint,

to read between the lines

where the bloody big whale

spouts a torrent of bi-sex

spring, and subsequently

parodies Hem and Sherwood

like Velasquez at the door

and the postmodern squit

Oh the thrill of the Mirror

Look at yourself!

The syntax and sound

is at variance with the Age

we need to dress in skin-tight

latex, as two old Queens, knight

the listener with a squall

of

I want you come inside

me now Baby

nice and easy

Oh shooting stars & Spiders on Mars

we pucker our lips

into rosy ass-holes

to whistle

the tune of

indifference

as the Cyberboys upload us

in their vehicles

of dominance

tie us up, gain our submission

in the Act of Rape

like the lonely Pontiac cruising

picking up

the broads

Lay, boom, boom, boom, lay

the prequel

Is the T.S. Eliot secretary in the

Wasteland and poor Vivian

in the looney bin

Cos

Cause

Tom and Viv inhabited two worlds

he the spiritual - she the physical

Those cyberboys

locked in

the

Virtual

like as we declare, in a Southern way,

as the magnolia in bloom,

so does the need to inflict

Agony

in

the

private

Pontiac

in

the

woods

of

the

Internet

Now Hart and I do not subscribe

to these values

that

begin with

the

Pin-up girl or boy

and

end

in

ashes to ashes

We, breach, like our whale does

the conventional

bubble

that

is

blown

by

the silicon

dream

Valley

we

sail

away

on our analog

junk

boys

sail

through

the

Gates

of

Hell.

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XV

For C.

Are you awake my lovely to the sun

that ties the bow of radiance upon the night

presents us with the morning and the audience

of a tree or two, then the shops across with

mannequins, early workers, the crows and

the blackbirds, as the stage of day opens

into the consciousness,

Are you awake my lovely to the rays of

light that describe the morning narrative

like paint by numbers, filling in form and feature,

as all life from the greyness of sleepiness

now animated, like the feline friend with a paw

taking with meticulous and loving attention

the strands of your hair, so begins the day

Are you awake my lovely to the presence

of my words, that in my absence colour and shade

my love, as you lay for a moment in bed, stretch

and yawn, ready yourself for the enterprise

of writing and creating, a poem or an essay

that will like the gentle breeze dissipitate

the vague and nebulous into a moonlike clarity

Are you awake my lovely....

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XIV

In the view stretching like a long

tumbling lawn from an expansive

Henry James' novel, we will Hart,

undoubtedly arrive at a not so

satisfactory conclusion as to whether

the Art is in the metrical precision,

i.e. that one promotes descriptive

design and cold intent, or whether

it is the short but tense vocalisation

of a HD that has the economy

of a walnut, but the ambition

of a Pantheon.

In the long run, leaving the

rambling dawn from a repressive

rhyming James Elroy Flecker poem,

dragging our ears through the mill

and plugging them with daffodil

We emerge in the clearing of a morning

blessed with the 21st century

the shock of an espresso

like the refusal of an ATM machine

like the tongue on the portrait

of a coke cup, touching the arching rim,

full to the brim with fizziness

of fractal derivatives, a vernacular

taunt of what's up, what goes up

goes down, and in the vista, we see

the millpond still of innocence

before the frontier of numbers

as they line the horizon across

the breadth of the universe

we feel unable, incapable,

like the honeymooner at the

Niagara Falls, we are rendered

impotent by the complexity

of our ignorance, as it forms

and crystalizes into technology

that sends us to Coventry.

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XIII

unlucky, tragedy, the baker's dozen,

burnt to a cinder, extraterritorial

eruction, takes us to the vessel

of fools, pacification is the dummy

in transatlantic legacy, the facile

hope for serenity, lagoonal, goony

bird take off, impeded by religiosity,

and by demands too high, death

downs nine, and wins the game,

they do not understand each other,

each with a cross to bear, a croissant,

a star-crossed, the creed wounds

with baseball bat and bullet,

would we, could we Hart believe,

will the Gods to make up, to kiss

will the peoples to embrace

the future, but to the sounds

of jeers, we two old flames, flicker

and go out in the contempt

for outside opinion, like the albatross

above, wing spanned, its Coleridge

symbolism, too much for the taste

of those who like the literal

who want to beat and batter

those fools, those stupid pathetic

fools, damned to the rock

damned to eternal conflict.