Carousel, your jukebox is shuddering,

An all forsaken hope and dream,

Red painted lips purse around the pinnacle and soft praline.

 

Women, bow before the sea!

The pearl corset for a stead.

Mistress strives not to please.

 

Spinning, spinning carousel,

Lights and shades,

Sparkling ill brigade.

Horses,  ponies,  men  of  the sea.

 

Ye’ occupy the saddle,

In your lacelined , Daphne colored bottoms,

Oh what a soft praline.

It pleads and pleads,

MORE COURTURE FOR ME!

An Afternoon in Gethsemane Bay

At the Mount of Olives I pray,
On the thresholds of Gethsemane Bay.
Biking over mounds of wreckage,
Looking for the place.
In the garden where do I lay?
So Jesus replied,
"Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests,
but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head."
Fallen squares,
I want spirals,
Circles coiled round elongated necks,
Jesus this is where you knelt and wept.
Will you lead me away from my static days?
Grab hold my hand where no crusader lands?
Turn over stones, and lead way to a new home?
Take these rhyme games and tell which land I should stand.

And he said, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me. My father if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will. My father if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done."

Matthew 8:20, 26:38-39,42

Heaven (in progress)

Here, the furnace is blasting like jet engines in our ears.
This is heaven.
Our dwelling, filled with toxins, tools, sparks, and flame.

Sweat is already beading at my temples.
My blond hair curling frizzy around my face.
I bend over to finish re-lasing my steel toed boots and button up my welding jacket.
Bruce yells, “I need my pour crew ready!”
I smile,
Adrenaline surging through my veins,
Hopping up onto the steal grated walk way, I secure my face shield.
Everyone’s smiling, cheers coming from all around.
Wanders flock in and a crowd is forming a safe distance behind the pit,
The aroma lured them in.

Yes, the smell of molten bronze!
More satisfying than any other,
More invigorating than any romantic experience.
Nothing is sweeter,
Nothing is better.
They all wish they were brave enough to choreograph this dance.
But they stand paralyzed, intoxicated by the scent.

I’m standing my place with my skimmer in hand.
Rotating the spatula-like base in the furnace, to keep it hot cherry red,
getting ready to remove the slag and expose liquid bronze.

Slag colors differently than bronze,
Itself an imperfection,
It rises to the surface and sits like a bruise.
I will be the heroine in this story and bring purity back to life.

Just as the Live and Dead ends lift the crucible from the furnace,
The gawkers let out an exasperated sigh,
My heart is racing,
Smoldering candy for my eyes.
The entire pot busting orange with life.
A color you only experience through photographs,
Even then, a photo still not vibrant enough.
The color holds you mesmerized.
Now we proudly bring our works blood, sweat, and tears to life.
2100 degrees of heat passing before our bodies.

And so,
This is my last pour,
Right until the stars decide to align again,
I'm savoring every ounce.
If I could always dance with fire.
If I could always perfect the imperfections.
But everything has to come to an end some day,
Even bronze has its own impurities,
So life will never find an ideal medium.
And somehow, that is reassuring.
Nothing has perfection.

The Forest Contained

For the wild man,
Forever ago.


Today is The First of May, Two Thousand and Nine.












Knowing nothing about life,
Let me say,
Polished stone and rubied jewels sink fastest.
A bandaged hand may be kissed by a crusader,
But swollen glands take longest.
And the trinkets of yester-year will pass,
All of them contained within the rose colored shoebox.
Together these words with these pages, will return to dust.


1.
It was when you held my hand, walking down
the wooded, muddy path.
We were following the river.
You stopped to pull me close and
Leaned in for a kiss.



2.
My wild man of the woods lies searing in pain,
Please stop moving my sweet, it’s making you hurt.
Groaning and moaning, his whole body a fracture.
Hands still scraped bloody,
I tangle my fingers in-between his and caress his arm.
Please don’t hurt my love.
He’s pushing the gurney buttons up and down looking for comfort.
He’s pulling and tugging at blankets and pillows.
Oh my sweet,
Please God let me carry his burdens.
My wild man should never have to hurt.
He asks me to leave.
I kiss his hand, kiss his cheek.
Despising myself for the day I first decided to walk away.
I turned around,
His face wincing from the pain.
Looking back I quietly closed the door to Room # 9.



3.
Where I grew,
Men wore camouflage and sprayed
Themselves with urine, to hunt their prey.
They sat in silence on tree limbs,
taking in mother earth.
Come evening they would return
to hug their wives,
holding close their trophy prize.
This is how things worked…


4.
When I said I wanted to walk in the forest alone,
I needed mother to cleanse my eyes.
The brush it snagged me and I forgot my compass.
But I had to be lost in the woods to regain my vision.
I needed to finish what I had started in the city so I knew how to feel.


5.
In the hospital,
Your mum told me,
“Young lady take care of yourself,
Too many people jump into love before figuring
out who they are and what they want.
So you shouldn’t feel bad. You were smart and
Knew you weren’t ready. And now you’ve told me
what you’ve learned. So don’t regret. You kids,
I would never want to date in this day and age.
The world is different now. I just hope you all
can find someone you can be married to for thirty
years like me and my husband.”


6.
“Weird Wisconsin” brought us here.
The tiny hairs on our necks turned up right in the night.
I think there was a full moon,
Its light reflected onto lake,
The air was a light mist.
The dense forest was to our right.
We felt we were not alone,
Witchy spirits and ghouls were watching from the trees.

Yet we were walking for miles through the sand,
I was in your arms,
A million miles away from evil lands.



7.
The woods never looked so bleak.
The fog
it fills
and fills.

My body is laying on the ground.
Looking up at the graying sky.
Chills running down my spine

These evergreens are brown and decaying.
What happened to the woods when I was gone?
This space is silent,
Time killed what love hath rooted.
Mother nature set fury to her young
I think my body is decaying as it lays.

Mother, what will resurrect life from death?


8.
Your face turned to look into mine.
My chin resting on the plastic rails of your
inclined hospital gurney.
Those same eyes fell locked into mine.

Pale blue eyes,
Softened yet upon mine.
Please forgive me.

Written on My Back.

Spinning helicopter seed,
You fell into my palm.
I looked at the sky and it was a psalm.
A ballade on the organ,
Played by Billy Corgan.
I sleep with your wild outlandish dreams,
Sneezing the make believe.
Coupled with a lantern of kerosene
I am not every young man’s dream.
The roamer, the ranger, and the caped crusader ought not to follow me.
I’m too in love with this pile of seeds.
I like to scratch until it bleeds.
And bandage the wound with crystalline.
A deeper breath than one would need.
Spiraling away,
Don't stay to see.
Gallop back to your country.

Notes on Thesis

1 box
2 box
3 box
4 box
5 box
6
Oh what smell!
Mmmm take it in...
Is it the lumber?
I slice the taped seam and fold over the flaps.
What smell,
How contained is the smell!
...My dad's work shop.
I sigh.
My heart beats faster,
With the opening of every box, a whif of savory scent.
The romantic smell of my father.
Lumber, motor oil, the saw dust, the great outdoors.
They barely describe the scent.
I put my head inside the box and move about the foam peanuts.
I sigh.
His aroma is contained inside the box.


ARCHEOLOGISTS make history. They dig up the treasures and arrange them with other "like objects" to create a culture. They use objects to create a COHERENT NARRATIVE.
2/4/09 A flat head screwdriver falls from the sky and nearly hits me in the head.
10/ /08 I am invited to a Vampire Masuerade in which i for the first time have my tarrot cards read. The reader says if I follow my intution i'll find the tree of life, peace, and happiness.
11/ /08 Justin suddenly started drawing the first of many trees in our collaborative sketch book.
1/ /10 Spee-dee delivery unpacks all of my art crates and repacks my art in new boxes. They fill my crates with strange articles and objects.
11/11/08 For the past 3ish years i've been coincidentally looking at the clock at 11:11AM. On the internet i stumble upon how people who see this time are really light workers called by God to keep people in high spirits during the last years before the apocolypse. Trembling after my resarch at 3:33 A.M. I happen to notice that the date is 11/11/08
2/5/09 Danielle Rosen dreams about a painting i've completed. I hadn't painted in 4 years and suddenly made a painting for a class. She walks into my studio and low and behold it was the same painting she dreamt about.
January 2009 - The phrases "chasing after the wind" and "nothing new under the sun" are spewing from the mouths of many different MIAD students.
2/18/09 A co-worker tells me I am the mother fucking daughter of Jesus Christ. I chuckle, we all are sons and daughters.
1/ /09 7 out of 17 kids wore red to class


Richard Pabst, heir to PABST BLUE RIBBON, Purchased Denis Balk's catalogs from the opening at INOVA a month ago. He is donating them to the UWM library. Curator of INOVA, Nicholas Frank says Milwaukee should feel fortunate to have such treasures of Denis Balk, as forever part of Milwaukee history. Now catalogued in the archives.
Constructions of the Gallery. Acknologing them. Defending them. Challenging them.

A Letter:

To the cloaked crusader,

Dear Sir,

Becoming antsy.
Reveal yourself.

Waiting again.
Who are you?

Thought I’d spied you.
Revealed yourself out of the cracks.

Unsure if you are the cloaked crusader.

But,

Your gestures and postural motions proved smitten.
Gathered in “moments…”

Ignored the signals,
Protecting a cautioned heart.
You nurtured the injury.
Hesitant but listening…
Contrasting greatly from burdensome followers, flocking at every reply,
Different.

Curious.

Remembering you vaguely from another time,
Never considered one of your kind.
Surprisingly, we seem one alike.
Friends of friends have nothing but positive words to each his own.
General masses befriended each of us.
The last to meet,
Just happened to be us.

Interesting.

Unsatisfactory clues provide little reference to your identity.
At this point I cannot question you being the crusader.

I will wait for a fight.

Signed,

A deeply obliged Love.

My Funeral

On this day,

Gold finches will fly higher than usual.

They will suddenly have enough capacity and strength to fly up to spaces sought

over in the crystal blue sky.

The hummingbirds will perch on willow trees and make friends with the crows.

And autumn leaves will blanket the grounds warm.

In the meadow,

The foxes will burrow into their homes and nuzzle their young.

Light will shine through the cracks of their den and eyes will become mystified by glow.

Over in the fields,

Announcing the hunt,

Coyotes howl,

Competing with Timber Wolves,

Upon night fall,

In the old man’s forest,

A striking match will light a candle,

Igniting a pile of old brush.

The tender, mild voices sound hushed.

And so,

The crickets will come out to dance and begin the symphony.

Tree frogs singing love songs,

Hoot owls carrying a tune.

Soothing winds, gliding through tall grasses.

Moths cluster near,

Mesmerized at the fire's light scene.

Frantically the masked rodent scampers through the music, to sample the food.

All these lavish events fit for a queen.

At last,

The old, red, short haired dachshund trots toward the half earthen burial stone.

His mouth sore and slobbering,

Carrying a huge deer bone.

He drops it from his mouth,

His loose teeth searing in pain,

His round brown eyes wince watery,

He bows down his crimson head,

Giving honor to the woman who has past.

Digging into the dirt with his small red paws,

He buries for her, his largest bone.

He digs deeper,

Just to take in the last whiff of her scent.

Shoves the bone in the hole and covers it with soil.

Here in rests his two best friends.

Laid side by side offered to the ground at best.

His first love, a bitch, lies to the left,

But now his truly, a loving master, at the right.

He sniffs once more the ground and disappears into the forest.

Woodland creatures stand in line bringing offering,

A bear hide is laid over the spot.

Arms full of daisies,

And palms of wild black berries.

Gifts and tributes to her days past.

Gathering of creatures in all kind,

Bid her good bye.

Now, slithering across, a Northern Ringneck,

His long, shiny black body and banded yellow neck tie.

He moves to expose the underside of his colored red belly.

Releasing a foul smell into the air.

Pungent, sour aroma.

Slithering and hissing.

He sneaks up on the sobbing meadow vole,

Who traveled from far during the day.

Coiling around her luscious impregnated body,

He squeezes around suffocating her breath.

The ambient surround sound phases.

The digging of paws, the plea of her loud screech,

Gushing,

Blood spills forth and fragile organs escape from her mouth,

The Ringneck uncoils and gulps her life-less body down whole,

Slowing taking in his super sized meal.

Choking down his prize.

Blood drips onto the laden white daisies,

Kissing the ground.

The smell of fresh kill.

In arrive the wolves,

Howling and announcing the pack a stampede.

Intruding, disrupting, the evenings ceremony.

The guests flee into the forest.

Sniffing and howling,

The wolves start pulling at the burial offerings.

The smell it enlivens them,

Death in the air,

They forcefully impede,

Ripping up the earthen grounds,

As they dig, the scent becomes stronger,

Their dinner closer,

The alpha female finds something,

Digging deeper and deeper,

Her adrenaline surging,

She found it at last.

Her jaws, latching on to something.

She pulls and rips flesh.

Clenches down again, uses all her might and surfaces a woman's milky white

body.

The pack takes notice and flocks to feast on the juicy delight.

Once they’ve had their fill,

They dash, to hunt a live kill.

Of what remains the coyotes sneak forth and take left over.

Turning war of the ceremony on ones departed days.

Midnights heavy rains washed away the scent,

Turning sunrise into new tides,

The evidence is fair.

Silent is the morning,

The forest is still.

Of all the things to appear,

Was the fleet of woodland creatures smitten and stricken by day light.

The bidding of old tides.

The morning dove cooed,

As she dropped down in flight.

“Long live the queen” she sang,

"As upturned as she’s been,

Her spirit has rested,

But her remains have breathed fuel into kin.

In the air of this forest she will walk with the old man.

She will guide us to his peace and we will rest within.

So watch for melodies played in this forest and life will begin again.

These are of glorious days.

Days walking with him."

Attack on Prayer

Suddenly,

Tempered flare to challenge me. 

Myself, the silent one.

Push me I dare you,

Just tell me not to love.

Shoved back in your face,

Prayer has power to hold one in place.

 

Evidence.

Scan open ground.

Are my prayers answered?

Yes, look around!

Pull me I dare you.

Challenge me just fine.

Make me cry in disbelief.

Heavy heated you’ve made me.

Man rarely knows what he says,

Forgive me this anger.

I may as well consider you a stranger.

Objectible I find this,

You will not convince me to fall from grace.

Transcendent Nights Italia: Piatza de Santo Spirito

Piatza de Santo Spirito,

Nights call to round in circle.

Sitting outside on the church steps,

Locals saturate this place.

Sweltering, rich in life,

At the fountain, the regulars unite.

Beautiful wanders of the countryside.

Boozed and ranting under the moon light,

Their starving dogs mating, wild, roaming free.

We’re soaking in the saxophonist tugging on our heart strings,

People laughing, dancing, chattering, in more languages than one could believe,

The air heavy scented with rich  Italian spices.

Cloves of garlic, rich aromas of oregano, and basil.

Indulgences of the sweltering mouth.

Here we are,

Men and women, 

New friends and acquaintances,

Passing around bottles of wine.

Drunk and giddy,

Engaging in discussion of true loves critique.

We’re certain of committing a sin, on these sacred steps.

Yet, caring little, the night whisked away.

In a heavy African accent approached a regular.

Interrupting, aggressively offering “hashish,”

Giving up after third and fourth attempts, 

At last, joining our caravan.

Unison in multiple dialects,

All engaging in critique.

Circled, 

Befriended,

We were brothers and sisters of the Italian night.

 

Transcendnt Nights Italia: The Arno

Journeyed to far away places once.
A man was singing on the Ponte Vecchio.
Serenading passers by with sensual acoustics.
The glimmering, golden shops of rich desire,
Closed at rest.
Darkness slowly cloaked the city.
Sitting on the cold cement ledge,
In love with the air,
Giotto’s blue filled the mysteries of the sky.
My sweet, sweet Italia, no one paints the heavens blue like you.
The Arno,
It was sparkling reflections from above,
This moment.
You could not capture it through a lens.
Nor do it justice with words.
All you could do was sit back,
In-hale and savor the sensations.

elsewhere.org

http://www.elsewhere.org/pomo/

If the meat of this essay becomes burdensome, please at least SCROLL DOWN TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE. READ THE LAST PARAGRAPH. There lies the interesting parts.

Below is a blurb to lure you in, just make sure you really check out the link!....

The Broken Door: Social realism in the works of Eco

J. Agnes Finnis
Department of English, Carnegie-Mellon University

Paul G. P. Reicher
Department of Sociology, University of Georgia

1. Discourses of failure

The main theme of Humphrey’s[1] model of cultural desemanticism is the difference between class and society. In a sense, Foucault uses the term ‘the precapitalist paradigm of context’ to denote the role of the writer as participant.

If one examines dialectic appropriation, one is faced with a choice: either accept the capitalist paradigm of consensus or conclude that language has intrinsic meaning. Debord promotes the use of social realism to modify and deconstruct sexual identity. But if the capitalist paradigm of consensus holds, the works of Rushdie are not postmodern

“Reality is fundamentally a legal fiction,” says Lyotard; however, according to la Fournier[2] , it is not so much reality that is fundamentally a legal fiction, but rather the paradigm, and thus the rubicon, of reality. Baudrillard’s essay on the postmaterial paradigm of discourse suggests that the State is part of the collapse of consciousness. In a sense, Long[3] holds that we have to choose between the precapitalist paradigm of context and dialectic theory.

cont...at elsewhere.org

Objection, Feminism is Alive!

Riled up New York art star, speaks bull shit on theory.

Ranting at a classroom of creative minds,

Declaring himself an intellectual of the time.

Who speaks?

Not I?

I have not skill in debate.

And so it is noted,

From the judge of state.

“Not one woman had spoken up during the entire debate”

 

Heavy burden I sigh.

I want to kick a man in the thigh.

Ready for this can of worms?

Feminism is alive!

 

Now a

Pornographic glitter painting hangs on the gallery wall,

Some one giggles and laughs, “ hey that chic looks like........ ………from class!”

Increase of body temperature,

Crinkle lines enflame,

How dare you objectify a fellow friend and artist this way!

A man made this painting.

He does not paint his face.

The only male parts shown are a mans penis, inserted half way.

The rest that’s exposed is she, staring straight at your face.

Nauseated, the painting hung for at lease seven days.

 

So I take hold and write.

Quiet and stricken,

Victim to silence as men dominate.

Passive and afraid.

Childhood miseries are my plague.

It is men who make me afraid.

 

Prayer

A sigh,

Unclenched tender muscles.

Distress released.

Straining eyes dried,

Objects, desires, fears, too powerful for the singular human mind,

Sounded in offering.

Coming of redemption, I fly. 

 

A token,

Loving blanket of flowers offer protection,

Global chaos, darkening skies,

Fear disguised as smiles in every one of our eyes.

Hushed mouths,

Denial.

Merry on, rejoice!

Have another Guinness,

Third round might suffice.

 

A love song,

Soft Bavarian,

Right hand surprise,

Catch me I’m falling!

The petals of daisies fly high.

Orchestrated accompaniment,

Musical selections hold tight,

Boundless discussion.

All is fair game in this word device.

 

A sign from above,

Coming of time,

Dawning of technology,

Worlds are shrinking,

Hearts burning longer,

Now steadfast and stand.

Come speak truth on love,

Our creator on high,

Sent down from above.

 

A Note,

A Letter,

A Sonnet,

A Poem,

A friend to a friend,

Kneeled down,

Embrace together, 

Let’s pray on this together,

All fallen in flight.

I heart Dead Animals

A fellow studio-mate borrowed my pen and returned it with an inserted note. 

... Curious and ironic.  I'm not sure if he knows my real- life obsession with taxidermy. 

A Letter to the Late Coosje van Bruggen

Dear Coosje,

Who are you my dear?

I weep at your death,

A tear makes way from the corner of my eye.

I am hanging soggy wet clothes to dry.

An ear to the receiver, held firmly by my shoulder.

I am pressed with news,

So it seems, you passed from metastatic breast cancer.

Ironically I hear this from my mother.

One whom recently "recovered" from the disease.

Now a phone call concerning your death. 

Beautiful Coosje i've seen your artwork you know!?

An exhibition in Spain at El Museo De Juan Miro.

There I fell in love with you and your husband.

Feet glued to the floor, heart racing,  love at first sight.

Moisture clamming at the palms.

Eyes reeling in delight.

Security found me suspicious,

Pacing from one masterpiece to another,

Ferverishly jotting down inspiration.

You and Claus formed quite a team.

Gigantic harps, cherries, typewriters, Grecian Columns.

The mere thought of this makes heavy my breath,

Now final partings on a collaboration.

The end of an era.

Coosje, I hold up to you, to Claus, my love.

May you find bitter sweet peace and well deserved rest in your home up above,

We have never met, but i believe we've known each other once.

God bless you my dear.

Amen.

With all my love,

Ashley Gustafson

Coosje van Bruggen (June 6, 1942- January 10, 2009)

sketch book xerox

RYOBI my Sweet one

If I were to just pick up that RYOBI power drill,

It's always the RYOBI drill.

Not the Dewalt, not the Milwaukee, not even the Black & Decker.

Just maybe i'd anchor in those shelves I built.  

Yes the ones sitting in my closet for the past year.

Those shelves.

Every few months I dig them out, hold them against the wall and imagine how nice it would be to have them,

To use them,

To fill up the surface,

But instead i let them sit against the wall. 

And eventually they find their way back into the closet.  

Oh sweet RYOBI,

Navy blue in color,

Yellow type.

That sound you make, when i use your brilliance.

Unfortunately I own the orange Black & Decker.

And it has a cord.

It's time for a trade in. 

Ducked tape poem

Response #1 to D.M.

Question: Do i see form & language as something that is expressive? or lacking expression?

Does a writer impose/infuse meaning and content in language?  Or does language carry it's own meaning and content?

Definition "Form:" The visual shape or configuration of something, arrangements of parts of people or things, arrangement of literary or musical composition. Essential nature of a person or thing. Mold, structure, the way a thing exists, or appears, manifestation. A document with blank spaces for words to be inserted.

Definition "Language:" method of communication either spoken or written, consisting in the use of words in a structured and conventional way, mode of communication specific to a people or location, manner or style of language or speech. 

Answering a question with a question.

How can one not see form and language as expressive?  Flatly speaking, those things (form & language) are fundamental parts of being.  Every one of us uses language either written or spoken as a mode of expression. Expression of needs, wants, desires, etc.  These being used on certain degrees of necessity, creativity, understanding, indulgence, what have you. By using language you are releasing that which is in your mind, which ='s expression.  Now form, this is more tricky but i also view this as expressive.  Form requires deeper thought. Visual thought on shapes textures, movements, arrangement, pattern, contour, gesture, of words, ideas or objects. This is form.  Therefore the mind must generate solutions to express form to others and ones self. 

My answer is yes, they are expressive.

Now to the second half of the question. 

A writer does both.  They will impose and infuse meaning and content in language. As does language carry its' own meaning and content.  Tricky question.  Emphasis on "trick."  

For a reader to be carried by a string of words ie. a poem, the reader must impose a succesful infusion of thoughts onto a page. The act of writing and having another read the material  is imposing thoughts and ideas onto the reader. And quite honestly i feel like writers want to make people understand where they are coming from, what they are saying.  So naturally it's imposing.  But to do this every writer tries to infuse meaning to let the reader be "carried away" by the words.  

Language naturally carries its own meaning and content.  Historically language has specific meanings, particular to individuals at a time, place, or location. Now language carries it's own meaning and content by definition. The word language itself has many definitions. This is where form comes into play.  The writer must understand the language well enough to use it in proper form according to the time, place, and location.  Here the writer imposes the infusion of language onto a page through form, inevitably revealing creative expression. 

The End. 

What in the name is concrete poetry anyways?

"Poetry in which visual elements play a large part in the poetic effect.  Punctuation marks, letters, or words are arranged on a page to form a visual design: a cross, for example, or a bumblebee.

Max Bill and Eugene Gomringer were among the early practitioners of concrete poetry; Haroldo de Campos and Agusto de Campos are among contemporary authors of concrete poetry." (www.gale.cengage.com/free_resources/glossary/glossary_bc.htm)

"The words of the poem are arranged in such a way that the physical shape of the poem on the page resembles the subject of the poem, ie/ a poem about a rabbit will be shaped to look like a rabbit."  (www.daffodil.ca/english/glossary_of_literary_terms.html)

"The origins of concrete poetry are roughly contemporary with those of musique concrete, an experimental technique of musical composition. Max Bill and Eugen Gomringer were among the early practitioners of concrete poetry. The Vienna Group of Hans Carl Artmannk, and Gerhard Rumm, and Konrad Bayer also promoted concerete poetery, as did Ernst Ju Jandi and Friederike Mayrocker." 

(www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/238238/Eugen-Gomringer)

or for a nice history on shapes and lines and dots which create this thing called letters, which form words, which spill from our brains explore 

http://jds-concrete.com/HISTORY.HTM\

OR FOR EVEN MORE FUN YOU MUST CHECK THIS OUT!!!  

http://wild-about-woods.org.uk/elearning/concretepoetry/

Dick Durrand's Accordion

Oh what a little blanket of sweet hopes and dreams.

Come now.

Gentle now.

Quiet now.

I'm seducing you.

You have a luster about you.

It comes from below.

Interesting.

Especially how you came about.

Can you see me playing the accordion?

Dick Durrand of Osceola, WI with his big buck tooth smile and potent coffee breath.

He plays the accordion.

I only saw him on Sunday mornings wearing his dark grey church suit.

When i felt ugly, he saw my beauty.

This old man would sneak up and put his arm around my shoulders after every church service.

It was as if I was his own daughter.

He enjoyed poking fun and would ask how many boys were "knocking on my doorstep this week?"

As a teenager there were few if any knockers.

But my eyes would role and i'd brush off Dick's comments.

He asked to play his accordion at my high school graduation.

Pink cheeked and embarrassed I declined, of course not knowing the instruments beauty.

He'd say, "Oh i know, I was just teasing about the accordion.  Your friends would probably laugh and tease!"

Secretly I always wanted him to play me the accordion.

I pray Dick will be able to play for me one day, like he always asked to.

Maybe we could play together.

And then just maybe, it would be one of Dick Durrand's very own accordions that I play.