Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Monday, September 29, 2014

The Blueing Hours

150/ He pictures winter: a large house in the middle of a field. With night circling the perimeter of the gables, he turns on every light. One by one. Like water they pour out yellow onto the blueing hours, shifting tones. As couple enter, wearing dated clothing, dance their circle masquerades, shadows flickering like candles on every wall.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Trying to pull out a positive note tonight—

—but so easily I find myself falling to the negative. A litany of reasons— lack of sound sleep at the top of the list. So it is important to shift focus. On my own terms that is. School lectures continue during the next few days— my attitude here, in the journals, reflects back to the students there, in the classroom. Atmosphere and environment can be channeled into something other by mere will. I have seen people do such acts of manipulation.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Feeling Drunk and Wandering

Last night the heavy stench of steamed vegetables filled the entire bottom floor of the house— when I moved from room to room, a thick greening covered me, — a dense awareness of food. Even now a sense of vegetation lingers in the bedroom, in the sheets, the curtains. As trying to walk underwater. Or feeling drunk and wandering.

Last month I underwent mild knee surgery. The swelling of my right leg and the ever increasing pain reached a point of necessity for change. Now, virtually nothing remains of the prior months— no evidence of limping, no shots of electricity across the joints, no scars. As if I walked into a parallel time stream— one without a history of wounding. Without the tearing of muscle tissue.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Unused Words

Unused words: bloodshed, Alzheimer’s, flycatcher and goduit, grout
As with typical late summer, now the night creeps in quickly, no longer the blur of a delay or casual hesitancy to drown out the landscape— one can close his eyes and daylight pulses into twilight. Blink again, evening emerges. Time motions under its own control.
149/ At the bus terminal, she waits for a late ride— undoubtedly stalled due to the heavy downpour, the unexpected rainfall drowning out major roads all across town with flashfloods, over flowing congested gutters, and stalled vehicles abandoned on the sides of the road— but her impatience grows, crests over with a bitterness, a vague hopelessness at feelings of being stranded in late twilight, that is, until the young runaway sitting nearby hands over a large maple leaf, blood red, the imprint of a hand really, his blonde hands smaller than the leaf, but he offers it out, then disappears inside the terminal, avoiding her questioning glance.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Breathing the Night Softly

Salty bubble and squeak. Cooked in butter. Spicy sausage. Cold amber beer.                      —heaven.
A day without time for myself— until now, when the house settles into itself. The cat wandering the hallways. Resting in windowsills. Watching the moon rise, a burgeoning bulb. Brendan almost asleep himself. Breathing the night softly. Right hand opening. Closing. Heart pulse.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Ten Variations of a Winter Image of Pan

Stonehead of Pan– ©David-Glen Smith

As a random experiment, I took a short phrase into alternating levels of meaning, the same effect as exploring multiple, parallel realities moving towards the same resolution. The one controlling aspect of all ten presentations: the single lines of text must contain only seventeen syllables, with rare shifts of imagery.

One interesting factor developed with the placement of winter either as subject or adjective. Or the alternating placement of emphasis on Pan, in this case shown either as a human-made garden decoration or as Pagan deity.

A stonehead of Pan rising from stilled green— almost frozen in winter—
A stonehead of Pan, rising from green, stilled waters— he grins sheepishly.
Laughing in old pond water, a stonehead of Pan rises from the green.
From out of greening water, a stone head of Pan, laughing long and loud.
Almost frozen in winter, a stonehead of Pan rises from the marsh.
Breaking the silence, Pan’s laugh lifts from still water— bathing in winter.
A winter head of Pan, stone-faced, rises slowly out of green waters.
Pan’s laughter lifts from still water— his winter stonehead rising slowly.
Rising from stilled green waters, a stonehead of Pan laughs — winter falters.
Winter falters as a stonehead of Pan lifts from lowering water—

Saturday, September 13, 2014

A Defined Path Always Seems to be my Priority

Despite the level of mundane roots spreading distractions throughout my limited, scheduled freetime—I managed to develop a running list of fractured themes, phrases of thought, ideas for future possibilities. That is, simply a scattering of words.
Scarlatti is on the radio. An empty coffee cup in hand. Outside a light rain falls. Autumnal environment. An overwhelming sense of absence sits in my lap. As if I were seeking something more profound to say, rather than random thoughts. Daily meditations.
Perhaps it is the caffeine.
Developing a clear path, a defined path seems to always be my priority. And I am a person who hates formulas, templates. Look at it in this fashion: I create boundaries in order to rearrange them or erase lines to later reshape territories.
Shards of lines later become poems.
8, 760 lines = 365 days X 24 hours
4,380 lines = 365 days X 12 hours
Starting November, the scattered words will be collected in rough order. Let’s call it a continuous poem, a visual metaphor of language. If played carefully, the material will display itself in a limitation of a year— similar to the 365 Haiku project from last few years.
I want to see how far such an abundance of phrases can pour themselves out, overflow the page. How far a collage of themes can be pulled out of a common source.

Friday, September 12, 2014

A Litany of Failed Friendships and Lovers

Sonny Rollins on the radio. Odd how the arrangement, slow unfolding of meter opened out every wound from the past fifty years. Every bruise resurfaced. A litany of failed friendships and lovers. The indifferences. The misunderstanding of phrases. Casual slights. Verbal assaults. Targeted infidelities.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Wandering Empty Buildings

For a brief moment, I knew exactly what today’s entry would entail— the mood, the tone, language, closing message. As it is, nothing remained in my head, aside from the opening phrase: For a brief moment— only a pale tundra remains, a dry rime underfoot, crunching softly as I wander, lost, looking for a point, a lingering red thread of an idea— blood red, earthy blood red, a hue which stands out clearly in an all-white world, but—
The three of us went to the nearby college library this afternoon, trying to instill the notion of books into Brendan’s caffeinated personality, offer him words, phrases— pictures. Even so, he seems more influenced by athletics, science, definitions, numbers.
Afterwards we crossed the campus. The heat of early afternoon settled thickly across shoulders, humidity determined to shift us away, chase anyone from wandering empty buildings and walkways of the college, silent in the weekend afternoon hours.