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)