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Fred |
tell your friends! change your bookmarks!
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Fred |
I.
I stand up, brush the earth and grass and sunshine
from my knees. If only we could see the stars
at midday, if only the galaxy mixed with the spires of pine
of this forest, tar
mixed with salt and the venom of time.
I can feel the breeze tracing out its rivulets.
II.
The world, the whole world, is laid out in this garden
Everything important to me is here
the cracks in the slate paths, fallen leaves, hardened
and rattling, the ants in their stupid, ragged lines,
the crumbling bark and the itinerant birds
calling their intertwined destinies to each other.
III.
I have decided that my room does not want to be a room
anymore. Each wall is shot through with tiny fissures
I can hear the beams folding themselves like limbs.
I've begun to prepare a pyre in the center of the floor:
(ordinary things, nothing bold) orphan socks,
spent bottles, copies of some books I am better off without.
IV.
I can only recall disjoint bones of our conversations now.
I've picked them over
all the sinew and flesh is gone from them
I can't even remember what the skeleton looked like,
assembled. It's the kind of thing that I wake up thinking
about, wondering if I dreamt about it.
V.
They fought all the wars already, our ancestors
did. There's nothing left for us to raise arms over.
Their battlefields are parks and museums, our schools
bear the names of old warriors and older murderers.
The swords are not plowshares exactly,
but they are rusted and useless. I abandoned them long ago.
VI.
I learned when I was young
that everything can be a solemn ritual,
letting my blood drip from my mouth,
tasting the dew before it binds itself to the ground,
the morning itself,
cold and crystal and silent.
Labels: Fred
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Fred |
Scholastics returns after a hiatus of about a year and a half! It isn't a perfect mixtape, but I've dedicated about as much time as is warranted to it - it's too nice of a day outside. Unfortunately, if you don't like hip hop, blog house, or radio pop, there probably won't be much for you here. (But listen anyway! Who knows, you could be surprised.) Conceptually, the mixtape is divided in half, with the first half being dedicated mostly to backpackers and conscious rap, and the second half being radio pop fluff. A parental advisory is probably warranted as well, especially for tracks 8 and 12.
1. Liquid Swords (GZA)
2. Electric Swords - (music: GZA - Liquid Swords, words: Aesop Rock - NY Electric)
3. NY Heartless (music and hook: Kanye West - Heartless, verses: Aesop Rock)
4. Get With the Times (Cool Calm Pete)
5. Runaway Too (music: Clipse - Mr. Me Too, words: Ludacris - Runaway)
6. Battle for Beef - (music: Cannibal Ox - Battle for Asgard, words: Mos Def - Beef, GZA - Publicity)
7. What Goes Around - (music: Books On Tape - Unidentified, words: Nas - What Goes Around)
8. Ignorant Ladies - (music: Beyonce - Single Ladies, words: Jay-Z and Beanie Sigel - Ignorant Shit)
9. Womanizer Rink - (music: Wiley - Ice Rink, words: Britney Spears - Womanizer)
10. Maneater Autodrive - (music: Kavinsky - Testarossa Autodrive, words: Nelly Furtado - Maneater)
11. Countach URAQT - (music: Franz and Shape - Countach, words: MIA - URAQT)
12. Danger Kids - (music: Danger - 11h54, words: Ghostface and Raekwon - Apollo Kids)
13. Miami Horror - Make You Mine
Labels: Fred
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DrewTM |
Under stars in silent clouds
Casual, like freckles
Killing every gasping sound
Through sun breaking--bending at least
Revealing gradients and stripes
Yellow. Green. Blue. Fantasy.
Indigo was made up by a teacher.
Never run longer than the light.
Give up on rainbows.
Labels: Drew
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DrewTM |
bask given
owl stern
ale (re)possess
round white
totem evidence
hungry dismiss
Labels: Drew
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Fred |
The tern cut a thin circle from the sky,
all feather and wings and call.
It weathered the light, it wore its flesh
and its flight loosely as it curved
over the horizon, out of sight.
I imagine that it does not know the patterns it follows,
does not remember that it followed the same path
not a year ago, that its memory cannot trace
that same thin circle, loses its place in the seasons,
the annual reckonings, in the home of grounded sticks.
I dreamt in splinters and slivers that night,
carry through the day the notion that I can
follow in its wake, answer
its one note question with my own.
Seven days it took to cross this fiction,
measured in sheaves of seconds, quivers of hours.
I retain the suspicion that there is no melody
that I have not yet heard. I unfold my hands and spread them,
in front of me like a map. I wear this flesh loosely.
Labels: Fred
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DrewTM |
I am now going to count a number of words. The only meaning that can be prescribed for this conundrum is to pronounce judgement on the works of fiction with which we surround ourselves. The number of words is also equal to the number of parts in the whole orchestra. But the orchestra has fewer parts than the word parts. Additionally, peanuts have the same parts as the orchestords’ calculus.
The end is very nearly the beginning, if you don’t count all the stops in between and the fire that rages on inside each of our minds. “Deltoids have faces too,” they say, but they are wrong. However, the fire and the deltoids do have one thing in common. They are both imaginary synchronizations and simulacra of the modern age.
Labels: Drew
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