"To be consumed by thought is to be incoherent."- B. Medeiros
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Written Words #4
Labels:
medeiros,
written words
We Few, We Brave Few (or Cassidy)
We don’t think about death, rather,
It follows us into our rooms, under our sheets and into the hollows of our dreams;
Here shadows pace & pace in visceral unknowns, unable to obey,
Unattached, why awaken these sleeping souls?
As stillness cradles us we cannot notice our final thoughts;
When is the last time we will hear our fathers’ voices in our heads?
This is for the dying fathers, the mourning mothers,
This is
For those that guard us & feed us & clothe us-
For those that shower us and surround us
With breath & absence, with hope & reluctance
All around, life exudes but we few, we brave few,
Forget every name, every hour,
Every face, to push
Farther into nothingness, into an abyss
Until we are forgotten—
The emptiness enclosing absolutely in the impervious mind
That rearranges the order of things.
-B. Medeiros
It follows us into our rooms, under our sheets and into the hollows of our dreams;
Here shadows pace & pace in visceral unknowns, unable to obey,
Unattached, why awaken these sleeping souls?
As stillness cradles us we cannot notice our final thoughts;
When is the last time we will hear our fathers’ voices in our heads?
This is for the dying fathers, the mourning mothers,
This is
For those that guard us & feed us & clothe us-
For those that shower us and surround us
With breath & absence, with hope & reluctance
All around, life exudes but we few, we brave few,
Forget every name, every hour,
Every face, to push
Farther into nothingness, into an abyss
Until we are forgotten—
The emptiness enclosing absolutely in the impervious mind
That rearranges the order of things.
-B. Medeiros
Hemingway's Last Days
"This man, who had stood his ground against charging water buffaloes, who had flown missions over Germany, who had refused to accept the prevailing style of writing but, enduring rejection and poverty, had insisted on writing in his own unique way, this man, my deepest friend, was afraid — afraid that the F.B.I. was after him, that his body was disintegrating, that his friends had turned on him, that living was no longer an option."- From A.E. Hotchner's: Hemingway, Hounded by the Feds.
Read the full article here.
Labels:
books
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Written Words #3
"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble makers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules and they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify them, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward, and some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do."
- Jack Kerouac
Labels:
written words
Bearded Book Review #2
Rating: A Full Beard (5/5)
"My briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know."
Labels:
bearded book review,
books
Cereal Anxiety (or the discharge of matter)
he carries the remote in his back pocket
as if it is a tool of his own mischief, of his own deviant nature.
an endless universe not expanding, not numbered,
not random.
he feels as though
he enters a circus made in heaven;
he can do anything.
he is afraid clowns will eat him.
he sits legs crossed, back straight, hair split
a fixed position, a fixed gaze
cutting emptiness, cutting darkness,
cuts predestined
presupposed, preoccupied;
he asserts attention, unordered
unidentified, unnamed.
he is transfixed by a tarnished pocket watch that sways,
the back and forth of time, a piece of time
passing through space.
the lunatic, the non-believer, the hypnotist, the devil himself!
and he the man in the mirror, clearly lost in his trance,
anxiety to stay crunchy.
clearly a madman, inaudible defiant,
indecipherable interruptions, fake concerns
told by a bottom buttoner who wets whistles, that twice a week
a bowl of cereal would talk to a call girl, it says,
stay crunchy.
cereal with anxiety.
cereal with anxiety afraid clowns will eat it.
he is told to go inside by an outer voice.
he waits absently in a hallway,
stretching skin over his head like a kettle drum,
pacing round like a clock hand,
the devil knows how much time he spends.
a devil in the mirror.
twirling his curls tighter than circus wire
a toaster teases the bath water,
taking center madness,
a ringmaster holds a gun to his ear,
tonight’s show--
the discharging of brain matter to uproarious
applause & mindless smoke.
- B. Medeiros
as if it is a tool of his own mischief, of his own deviant nature.
an endless universe not expanding, not numbered,
not random.
he feels as though
he enters a circus made in heaven;
he can do anything.
he is afraid clowns will eat him.
he sits legs crossed, back straight, hair split
a fixed position, a fixed gaze
cutting emptiness, cutting darkness,
cuts predestined
presupposed, preoccupied;
he asserts attention, unordered
unidentified, unnamed.
he is transfixed by a tarnished pocket watch that sways,
the back and forth of time, a piece of time
passing through space.
the lunatic, the non-believer, the hypnotist, the devil himself!
and he the man in the mirror, clearly lost in his trance,
anxiety to stay crunchy.
clearly a madman, inaudible defiant,
indecipherable interruptions, fake concerns
told by a bottom buttoner who wets whistles, that twice a week
a bowl of cereal would talk to a call girl, it says,
stay crunchy.
cereal with anxiety.
cereal with anxiety afraid clowns will eat it.
he is told to go inside by an outer voice.
he waits absently in a hallway,
stretching skin over his head like a kettle drum,
pacing round like a clock hand,
the devil knows how much time he spends.
a devil in the mirror.
twirling his curls tighter than circus wire
a toaster teases the bath water,
taking center madness,
a ringmaster holds a gun to his ear,
tonight’s show--
the discharging of brain matter to uproarious
applause & mindless smoke.
- B. Medeiros
Street Art Favorite
 |
| Rabbit and St. John by Gaia on Girard Ave in Philadelphia. More here. |
Labels:
art
Friday, July 29, 2011
Complications of Glass
A spectacle of disorder, and is no order not ordinary,
no search for no will resembles less
hopes more, and there will
be no mercy washing that’s in unnatural colors.
a difference, a very little difference
is sugar.
so hurt out of rudeness that’s so rudimentary,
and so earnest not to red.
a soul coal color is not cheaper
no reason is light enough, and not exaggerating
may be, may not, may not be a color darker—
a cause, a cause,
a cause
a loud clash, establishes a thought
to replace the use
to use paper,
the one, the one that makes
the one to make,
to be left open at the end,
to be left sooner than a choice in color,
a yellow dust color,
if dust is sooner than paper, if dust is
a considerable cause,
a dust, a sad that is not sad,
is blue.
a mark by cut,
a flat nothing, a flat nothing,
cut in,
cut in, cut more,
to be left nothing but complications of glass—
more than shadows waving color.
no search for no will resembles less
hopes more, and there will
be no mercy washing that’s in unnatural colors.
a difference, a very little difference
is sugar.
so hurt out of rudeness that’s so rudimentary,
and so earnest not to red.
a soul coal color is not cheaper
no reason is light enough, and not exaggerating
may be, may not, may not be a color darker—
a cause, a cause,
a cause
a loud clash, establishes a thought
to replace the use
to use paper,
the one, the one that makes
the one to make,
to be left open at the end,
to be left sooner than a choice in color,
a yellow dust color,
if dust is sooner than paper, if dust is
a considerable cause,
a dust, a sad that is not sad,
is blue.
a mark by cut,
a flat nothing, a flat nothing,
cut in,
cut in, cut more,
to be left nothing but complications of glass—
more than shadows waving color.
- B. Medeiros
Bearded Book Review #1
Rating: A Full Beard (5/5)
Best Translation: Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O'Connor
"The tongue can conceal the truth, but the eyes never! You're asked an unexpected question, you don't even flinch, it takes just a second to get yourself under control, you know just what you have to say to hide the truth, and you speak very convincingly, and nothing in your face twitches to give you away. But the truth, alas, has been disturbed by the question, and it rises up from the depths of your soul to flicker in your eyes and all is lost."
Labels:
bearded book review,
books
I Met A Genius
I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.
it was the first time I'd
realized
that.
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.
it was the first time I'd
realized
that.
-Charles Bukowski
Labels:
poetry
Beard of the Month -- July 2011
Brian Wilson
Fear the Beard
"Lets be honest here it's just doing what it wants and it…it just does what it wants"
"Lets be honest here it's just doing what it wants and it…it just does what it wants"
Labels:
beard of the month
The Cat Piano
A short film by The People's Republic of Animation, directed by Eddie White and Ari Gibson
Labels:
videos
Shigeru Mizuki Illustration
"Umi-bōzu are giant black bulbous beings that live in the sea. Sometimes they have glowing eyes and a beak, and other times they have no facial features at all. To survive an umi-bōzu encounter at sea, one should remain quiet and look in the opposite direction. Speaking or looking at the creature may send it into a rage -- and that usually ends in tragedy. " For more illustrations: [Go]
Labels:
art
In The Desert
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter – bitter", he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter – bitter", he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
- Stephen Crane
Labels:
poetry
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