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Knotted

this may go nowhere
the electric razor buzzes erratically in the other room
charging
cleaning itself and
charging
and there was this urge to do something
in the form of words launched
they just kept coming
bunched up into phrases
scenarios
but under the influence of words
that just keep coming
me and the razor and the robot doing its thing
bubbling, whirring
and someone somewhere stoned as hell
thinking about it
that thing
and how it should fit in
or better yet, integrate
or forget about it all together
and take a nap

but no
instead
like pulses
and impulses
under no one’s direction
pushing at
pushing out
a smooth ripple easily washing over
and over
and over
like pulses
and impulses
and the razor and the robot doing its thing
but not without Humphrey
in the background
ruining everything with his ideas
on the condition of reality

With Aristotle

Aristotle in the back yard instead of raking the leaves that crackle and rustle under foot

Supposing that knowledge is one of those things that is fine and valuable

Considering each thought as it comes to mind – wondering if, fleetingly or otherwise, each is an action unto itself

Of these some are held to be affections peculiar to the soul itself, others belong to the animals

Falling behind the effort to keep pace as the awareness of every moment’s passing stacks upon its predecessor

the inquiry, that is, about substance and what a thing is — perhaps someone might think

Thinking about thinking, thoughts about thoughts, daydreams dangle loosely and tangle into knotty heaps

For straightness is inseparable if indeed it is impossible without a body

A murder of crows acts as a distraction and an awareness of my re-action drives me inside to seek refuge from the endless possibilities

Vienna 1914

Here you are in front of mirrors
naked then clothed in suits of dead fathers.
Here you’ve painted a tree
Which is really you stepping over
fields and fences.

Here you’re a prisoner covered in red coats.
Jackdaws settle in trees outside your cell.
You write, “A single orange was the only light.”

As soldier you do not fight but guard prisoner,
as your uncle Leopold guarded you
with his mustache and cane.

Here your mistress kneels on all fours.
You position her according to large mirrors.
She buries her face, appears headless.
She might be a table.

It is 1914 there are whole towns of women
turned chairs, figurines, pieces of cloth.
The men are heads, hands, shirt fronts flashing.

Because her skin is paper you dab it with vermillion.
Its toxic mercury light breasts, heels, and ankles.
Mined in China, Sin door to Indians,
it is the mark of marriage, more expensive than gilding.

This woman will never wear your mark.
You intend to marry well, one of two sisters.
Their father is a master locksmith.
They walk in clean Protestant light.
Besides, marriage ruins good mistresses.

At news of your intentions she leaves you
in fields of rock with torsos and faces.
Now it is you that kneels, ankle lodged
between two stones.

Sharp toothed artists of Vienna,
you’ve given us men with green faces,
eyes rimmed in red, afraid of losing
their right hand.

They observe it severed in dreams.
They treat it with electro shock.
It jumps and jumps.

Like you we open and close windows,
piece meal pay checks, walk doorway
to doorway dirtying floors.

Like you we wait for catastrophe
and know it has already happened.

Lean Ether

open to a blank page just in case
just in case this document is ready to become a documentation
a documentation of that which is already happening, in progress
a contemporaneous convergence, if you will.

crude, and yet we all agree: Beautiful
though beautiful hardly fits the bill as an attempt at describing
describing but just scratching the surface, grazing the veneer
these are the words. this is the phrasing.

each line is a happening in it self
itself taking shape as the words spill out and spill onto
spill onto and across in the form of a poem, fashion a verse
make from nothing but the words in my head: Something.

Catbird

there’s a catbird in the Xylosma
not nesting, exactly, but living
or hiding from the rain that’s recently returned
after just one day to drain
assess the damage and be thankful for none

the catbird flits about
and I can’t decide if
it is doing so nervously
or in a rather cavalier fashion
chi-chi-chippering away
either to herself or at me

she’s peeking through the cool dark of her dense shelter
from branch to branch hopping
getting up to eye level
maybe to assess the threat
and be thankful for none

I, perhaps nervously, step away
from the bulging hedge
begging to be pruned
pack a bowl
and smoke it
as the catbird looks on

The Last Stoup, Issue 10, April 1993

Mason’s Stoup 10

In Between

driving
but dilly-dallying
really
daydreaming
over the hills
the miles of vines
the corners of which I’m cognizant
but just barely
the dead barn owl with one wing flapping in the breeze of a car just gone by
the cows
cute but stinky
and thankfully organic
the jibber-jabber on the radio
the cool rush of air from the window on the far side of the truck
the miles
really
the miles
they rush at me and under me and into infinity beyond the back bumper
and then the sun pushing up and into
pushing
the sky in the mirrors brightens and lightens and makes itself known
and when I look up at the mountain range that stands between me and the massive expanse of Pacific
the fog just barely spilling over
pink

Source Code

unbending on breaking into a series of handshakes and deals
contracts written into existence post facto
words situated to fit the situation just as the unfolding takes place
(is this equal and opposite?)
more than making a fuss over
this documentation
more than just a casual observation

the parties involved take parts neither are quite sure of
the definitions of which lay unfinished in a heap somewhere
notes scribbled, things referred to as “paperwork”
ellipses taking the place of, or implying meaning where any has yet to settle despite the appearance of agreement or sense of propriety

this is where bleak formality is layered in
where the comfort of conformity trumps the ideas of action
where the questions, in all the forms they’re known to adopt
whether posture or postulation, blossom into a thing more important than that for which they strive
– the answer is the terminal, the question, the journey

between that which is developing
the cause and effect
the nuance
the roles implemented
the desire to imagine
to backfill and anticipate that which is not apparent, becomes the beauty of the action taken
makes connections
makes that upon which we endeavor a voyage instead of mere motion.

Rest in Peace, Denis Mahoney

denis

By now many of you have heard the sad news of Tariq’s passing. He died peacefully at home on Tuesday, April 17, 2012 at the age of 52.

From Denis’ Facebook Page:

A memorial service for Denis will be held at La Grua Center in Stonington, CT on Friday, April 27, 2012 at 12:30pm. Everyone is also invited to a reception at Skippers Dock immediately following the memorial service. The La Grua Center and Skippers Dock are located very close to each other so you may park in either lot. Please allow a little extra driving time because Stonington Borough can be difficult to navigate.

La Grua Center
32 Water St Stonington, CT 06378
(860) 535-2300

Skippers Dock
66 Water Street Stonington, CT 06378
(860) 535-0111

In lieu of flowers, the family humbly requests that any donations be made to Say Yes Like a Tree – Education Fund in memory of Denis Mahoney.

Tariq, we are heartbroken and we miss you, but we are comforted that your legacy lives on through your art.