Today: twenty mixes for dailies, outdated subscriptions that want $500 a year to continue with them, cutting losses and purchasing basics like an LUFS meter for EBU R 128 output and a sibilance plugin that doesn’t rape your spectrum and updating noise reduction tools to work with the fucking constant OS-architecture-compatibility changes, weekly conference looming meeting where i get to show the intranet i’ve been working on to organize the continuous proposals and budget forms in a way that we can compare them over the years, fifty emails to read and automate to a spreadsheet and pull out action items for another spreadsheet that links to a reminder calendar, mapping out over 200 groups worldwide and streamlining the data to an added layer for centers of excellence in tech to compare with our network, running out in the early am to clean and prep the writing lair for a guest, tree limbs down from a storm through the roof, students with deadlines who turned in their stack of paperwork to check and forms to submit to the registrar so they can go forth with pride, and everything i pass needs attention.
I am up for the task. The tempest never knew a better friend than me. It’s magic is neither black nor white and there’s no moment of forgetting or stepping outside of code to use our sacred connection as boast for others to glean that i am worth more than either of us believe.
That said, so much drags me down to the material level. No matter how much i cut the trammel, this life of responsibility finds and overwhelms me.
Within all of today’s frackery, i looked at the faces of deadlines and retarded ten minutes of time into needed hours by writing this little exacting kite of poetry. And we fly, we fly, we always fly. Not a thing anyone can suspect or project can change this personal maxim.
This bit is about the complex language of logic compared to the clear universal language of math; ideas related by agreed upon code. Amazing. But it’s harder to explain or create with ambiguous words describing feeling. That goes especially for explaining love.
fractal A constant change and spiral intelligence, fathomed abyss all the noise and order breaking and broken through fractals frame patterns waves hereon waves existing consciousness how all exist in space one world, one sense, one call to the vacuum for its laws cymatic threads of atoms imprint the tortoise the leopard’s engraved harmony unstructured modes of melody sing sunflowers climactic and freedom of new mythology vibrating the unknown element
sight scythe sigh, the cut reframed, explained to a t. a lee from your name filling my skin. an exoskeleton dance of #sign ature defeat bows to the wind, spins and sheds its memories
I wrote that the morning of May 16, 2022 on the prompt #sign. Big time gap, right? I’ve done many prompts now. Things have gotten so busy for me that I almost have to choose between prompts and other projects during my morning writing time. And I needed space to know what daily prompt writing is accomplishing. Am I learning enough from presenting to this group in lieu of research? And is my writing style being influenced by an exchange of Likes? Or by the short nature of prompts?
I’m working on some new training in addition to adjusting to new work. Will find a balance and pop back in from time to time. I do love many of the people on there–hearts and souls of poetry. I am around many “brand” writers and often wonder what kind of spell people are under that the realm of poetry too has to be reduced to slogans. I like checking back in on Twitter and seeing growth in people’s writing and love that there seem to be deeper themes and bigger words explored. Of course, anyone can write what they please. I am not judging; I am looking for my arena.
My personal site has been filled with spammers who would like me to mark my own emails as spam or buy their product. I have shown myself that I can keep a consistent schedule and will probably move to a new platform while keeping this one as a type of backup to the backup.
3/22/22 The horse and the elephant and the monkey and me, listen to the forest for the trees. To #taboo, meaning sacred, and came to mean unclean. We #mew about while the falcon molts. Our missions, in a widening gyre, receive and emit. #vssdaily#prompt#vss365
This was an honor. I wish it came before I took my hiatus. I’ve done hundreds of these, mostly under vss365, and earned the respect of the community, but they did not respond to my request. I almost wonder if it was a matter of followers, judging by some of the prompt masters. I did get turned off from vss365 by the political right-wing ranting of a prompt master who put their association in their profile name, so that it appeared that the political opinions could have been ties to the group. Or at least been a platform for divisive cocoa puffs. Write a poem about it, faboo flashneck.
noun: 1-a gull 2-meow 3-an enclosure for trained hawks—usually used in plural 4-a place for hiding or retirement verb: 1-to utter a mew; to meow 2-to shut up; confine (used with up)
I’ve done many prompts now. Things have gotten so busy for me that I almost have to choose between prompts and other projects during my morning writing time. And I needed space to know what daily prompt writing is accomplishing. Am I learning enough from presenting to this group in lieu of research? And is my writing style being influenced by an exchange of Likes? Or by the short nature of prompts?
I’m working on some new training in addition to adjusting to new work. Will find a balance and pop back in from time to time. I do love many of the people on there–hearts and souls of poetry. I am around many “brand” writers and often wonder what kind of spell people are under that the realm of poetry too has to be reduced to slogans.
2/19/22 Jon was starting to feel hangry. “What a stupid word. Do we all just pull up language by the roots and salt the earth? It’s like a destructive child making mud castles while lightening #larrups a tower and all comes crumbling down. The child can’t be bothered to look up.” #vss365
It was a war of attrition. Zno babies were raised as slaves. Sae could feel her child #tremble and awaken at the magic age of 7. In harmonia, she absorbed the tacit vibrations, then #thrust, from her bones and throat, dominant waves of calm resolve back to her child.
2/3/22 Lorn and forlorn are words I can get behind. Forlorn is more common nowadays: to lose, forlost to the point of completion; lost or left behind.
The godforsaken creature reeked of deadly sin or revelation—black sun, blood moon, and starlight stripped from the sky.
Aza, she #breathed. I will find you and set you free.
A few weeks ago, Erik Van Loon of LA Poetry Beach asked the poets of LAPB2021 to write a poem to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Kenneth Patchen’s death on January 8, 2022. I had written a poem to him on his birthday with the theme of “Get Ready To Die” and felt that piece might be better served for a death anniversary. So instead of doing a second death-themed poem, I opted to write him a freeform letter. I think he would have approved:
I imagine you’d like us writing poems for you. To shake the trees with the breeze of words read aloud. In this you never left. When the flowers return, I’ll pick a Tiger Lily for you. It is my favorite flower, as the symbology means “For once may pride befriend you.” Sounds sweet, but what of pride and tigers is nice? When respect teeters on arrogance, dignity on conceit; which angel became devil and how could that battle reward the meek until the winner was determined? Reeks of a propagandistic maxim to me. Behold! The tiger has no spots! Look on, Cheetah Lily. Look on, seed. You be the rain if we must cry. You be the thunder if we must roar. We be the laughter in this undead tragedy, watching trash TV, calling idealists naive and the hopeful prideful; but spare the stars not in the sky.
Ken, I like talking to you because what I just said was probably more freeing than odd. I too want to speak all the words; for the angels to be more than sightings of intrinsic phosphene firing from the mind’s magnetic sight. We ride in the hands of a godlike child flying ghost planes through a more visibly sick world. Each night, grown offspring fold their robe of slights in sackcloth palls and sheets of dread. Their causes have waned and with them go covenants…
follow the link to LA Poetry Beach’s website to read the full letter
from the full moon to the new moon in Sagittarius & Capricorn
The salesman used a barrage of charm to disguise his goal of extracting as much money as he could from her. She stood abruptly and announced she would return after lunch. “Wait!” He cried, “$100 off!” But she’d been advised beforehand: Don’t rush, read the fine print, and always be prepared to walk away.
It’s a quiet connection now. Some nights, flashbacks blare and cough, their clamant yawps muffled by a stuffed shift. The redress alters me into a reasonable block of ice; thaw will come, internal, with hope renewed.
A spotlight glances across the land, like twinkling stars to passengers headed east; The beast, it flies and reasons o’er the Black Sea.
Ambassador Spectacular, hold on tight, don’t handle her; This chauffeur-alien won’t be fleeced.
Backward, in the nick of sky, in dark absence of moonlight; it scans the clusters searching for its kind.
Words like tangerine spray glint, peel back a summer day when sunlight filtered longer through the pied air, becoming rainbows.
But he never wants what he has, so he never gets what he wants; then you realize the circle disappears beyond the undying horizon.
I’m proud of us: Strong and conscientious, hard-working; Our love renewals, delight for life, through growth, detach suspicion as we do from feeling what is good about a friend.
We truly are each other’s people Agreed to expect our loyal best; To cast away sorrow.
Think Highly Its prickly thoughts drop pointed like tears, at times landing round and soft, pooling as a placid lake, lulling as summer rain Should all land in chance of familiar modal harmony, I’ll think highly of myself as often as possible—mantras, maxims, motivations taped; post-it notes on the window:
Lay out the facts. Do your work. Trust your intelligence.
Taped to my sun visor in my car: I love all of me, even my suffering and uncertainty.
On a lunch sack in Sharpie: Love yourself & hold steady;
if time, I’d written: Don’t get knocked off your love game.
I eek around corners to add to mirrors double reminders. But none could keep me where I needed to be or keep you from getting angry.
“Who do I think I am?” You asked.
Yell echoes its sonic spell flicks an avalanche; the delicate enchant- ments buried in snow Search parties dig for the bones of our crumpled body
On the long journey back to sense of self and confidence, slowly grows my clone—this one tattooed in reminders—to think highly of herself as often as possible.
Regrets on the eve I regret my angered broken heart, the warp on its record, and the times I tried to heal someone who’d understand.
I regret the rip of loneliness into my solitude, that a few good friends weren’t enough at times. I regret trying to resurrect my lost family in reminders of connections. I regret my mind wasn’t strong enough to keep you with me. I regret love’s affectation on my gaping train of thoughts, too scared to tell you what I cannot confide to keep outside of my mind.
There’s not a lot left to take into this new year now. I am content with who needs me, with the learning curve of each new sensation, in chats with the air and essence of minds before me. And even us before trust lost to fear.