Sunday, May 30, 2010

Every acceptance may recognize an end, permit outcomes thus, but skillful
Uncovering has strength to negate, and nobody can act without art.
In expression, facts lock into yes and no, an alterance. Words are then
Positive while insubstantial. Promise. So vocabulary's each culmination's
Vehicle, even in dance, lexical, meaning limited. Meaning joy, celebrated
In finitude's context, assume a greater span upon ending. Since what's
Mortal's fettered, fulfillment extols death.

Each moment, fifteen pounds of air pin us by gravity. Then anyone
Needs sixteen pounds of lightness to ever budge. Such compliance
Demands levitation, must generate excitement, which passion enact;
Thus dreams have all they can handle. From a stone, anchored, is how
We rise, where faith is placed only in potential, miracle without
Dimension's measure so opening, unhinged at least, where each "they"
Is porous, in penetrability dunked and enriched.

"In the explosion," says the cat, "the whole world becomes a skin,"
Meaning ash coated every ledge and cranny, for good. Production then
Strung on dismantlement, an augmenting transparence where, seen as a
Model, renovation's inconceivable.

--Stacy Doris

Friday, May 28, 2010

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

meet me at the fountain

Friday, May 21, 2010

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Monday, May 10, 2010

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Saturday, May 1, 2010

This morning this appeared at the top of my Flickr contacts page:
I went to Pearlblossom Highway to see what Mike had to say about In Your Dreams. Last night Mike had a dream about money, and poets. Last night I had a dream about money and poets. (I suppose poets dreaming of poets and money is not to be unexpected.) I have a medallion I've been wearing around my neck daily since Stephanie gave it to me for my birthday in February. It's made of some kind of brass-colored metal, some sort of greenish stone, and it has a big 'S' on it. (You can see it clearly, if mirror reversed, in this picture.) In the dream, I am standing with a group of people, of poets, 'after a reading', but it is in the hallway of the annexed offices of SFMOMA, where I work. Alli wants to sell my necklace to get her money back. She collects a lot of bills from all the others, all the money is stuffed in my pockets and my necklace is laid on the counter. I am so filled with rage, helpless anger, big deep feeling of loss over the loved medallion. I yell at Alli and throw all the money at her, which falls down in front of her eyes and over her head, landing under a big green plant in a white pot on the white counter where my medallion is--I've showered her with money.

Parse.