Thursday, July 17, 2014

The Elder Edda

(A poem to the 2000s)


The stream was darker than the sun
as it ravaged up from a mushroom base
and then trailed a tirade tale
to that neither place that is above the ground
and beneath the sky.
Florid flowered its face to break the whirling bird,
that laden with a hundred half broken eggs
and there exploded into light.
There is nothingness for the first fortunate few.
The rest are tinder to the fire that is child of the flame,
in stages billowing out in air's compression.
Oil dank and soot cascade the air,
and there reigns the kingdom of noise.
Welcome war,
and your grimaces are write on churning of the products of imperfect combustion.
The onlookers see the motion stop,
and then restart with renewed vigor,
hours hang in the moment between the time where time halts,
and when it rains down.
Half a hundred mothers have their fiercest fear etched on that day,
a dozen more have sons bebadged as heros of the resistance.
Its arc is the arc of empires,
driven by explosion,
and weighted by gravity.
It is a dusk. It is a dawn.
It is nothing like the sun.


Flies the furnaced fur that once was atop a man's scalp.
Beneath the thoughts beaded a life.
Angst, anger, and ashen fear, between the pulses of craving.
For intoxication, for fat fried in batter,
for penetration, of where he did not care.
A hard narrowed eye
and twitched cheek were the signature of his face in life,
a face that fragments now as wafts of carbon that dance in the dying light
Come down the day, and crest forgotten wishes
that believe some other sun to. Night remembers Nothing
that you came from Nothing is so strong,
you knew it all all along. Black birds in flight to ravens
sing of fright, that trees twisted barren
and the snow comes, white.
Fires all alight. cry that sullen sinking site.


Bled body of stones,
littered in cones and shards on a blasted heath,
one made of pines were that once were fur of the earth,
but burned bare of all their needles.
A man, his shoulders as far across as many horses are broad,
sat on his haunches
and rubbed the soil together in his hands.
He looked up at his taller, thinner, companion,
one of drawn face and black locks above paler skin.
“I have seen this before.”
“A blast like this,
I would have thought you would have long ago regaled me with the tales.”
The taller man looked into the distance,
seeming to survey the row of low, worn, mountains
that formed a bowl around the valley they were in.
He stared down towards a lake,
filled with black water, and laced with bare rocks
that formed small islands.
“This,” he held up round, almost pebble shaped,
bits of soil
“is what happens to dirt in the jungles
when it is exposed to the sun.”
This drew a glance down from the tall, pale, figure.
“It means there was a great piercing heat.
But here, not so great as a volcano.”


There that comes I bang my drum, 
 drum there is a thrums my thumb. 
With slowly beating now begun, 
on skin and wood I bang my drum. 
The western rim swallows the sun, 
we walk in file rum tum tum.

A pair of lines, robbed in white,
and carrying before them a cross made of wood 
walked along the dusty path to the aged mossy stones 
that over looked the rolling hills marked by craggy boulders. 
Not far beyond a churning arm of the sea 
sloshed against the chunks of granite shore, 
sploshing and dull roaring, 
but unable to swallow the one person 
who was walking out of file: 
namely the youngest child of the departed. 
He had lain here all night, and then all day.

They had come here for last rights. 
The two older boys were waiting, 
having shot with muskets, 
or slashed with sabers any birds who had thought to rip a chunk
from the laird of this barren patch 
of the rocky northern coast of Scotland.

One of the two was still bone thin, 
and a stretched out boy in his face: hollow cheeks, 
and not a drop of fat upon him beyond enough to lubricate his movements. 
His brother, though only two years senior, 
looked a man, with a broader jaw, 
and black black hair that framed features 
that had rounded with some settling in to his limbs.


Nimburbia, Flesh and Steel
The morning drunken revelry of rasping petroleum combustion 
was upon the eastern lip of the continent. 
Which continent? It was becoming increasingly important. 
How many rants recorded of this hour. 
Daddy grips the wheel and stares alone into the distance. 
Little boxes. Little boxes. 
So far from the freedom of radar love. 
So many cars to pass, no going, only here. 
A serpentine fat with all the flesh and steel it had swallowed, 
leavened with aluminum, frosted with plastic, 
and jimmied with chromium ium ium. 
Rev rev revolution, going nowhere faster than ever before. 
No decade, no century, welcome to the world's next teenage.
Here comes the fog of commerce, 
so much sleeker than the fog of war,
or London fog of two centuries once before. 
It rolls and covers, envelopes figures, 
and enflames the lungs, reaching in and ripping out. 
Breathing out, and breathing in. 
It almost makes the day become. 
Call it Hemi-V-Straight-L metronome. 
Ford. Chevy. Mazda. Hyundai. Citroen. Audis 
shouting with Shenzhens. LYD electric whir, 
lost amidst the idling purrrr. 
Everything pureeed into this riding the break jamborees.

Welcome to Beijing 2012.
Blood itched at him, 
he could feel the mole on his nose had erupted again. 
He stopped his hand, before his white french cuff, 
carefully ironed by their live in maid that morning, 
and scrubbed out when the tiny tinny washing machine 
had failed to wrench the sauce stain. 
As he stopped and started, 
his mind caught in a tight small loop 
between wiping off the crackling drying sense of blood.


It began as a low buzz of clouds, 
remains of a failed storm that was sheared apart. 
we may have dodged the bullet.
Because the mathematics said that this was an historic year 
for Atlantic tropical storms and the curtain that divided
those that went out to sea, 
from those that struck land, was perilously close. 
But it was not so.

That buzz of clouds began to organize 
and was given a name: “Katrina.”


Of detail of the painting can be one of several ways,
for the three most common are large picture zoomed to small, 
which is how the teacher wants it, 
small picture assumed to big, 
and a detailed which is magnifying large, 
but hangs on the realization that it is the most important detail of all. 
Let's begin from, the detail.
The large detail is a top down detail from 30,000 feet, 
it zooms over the topic. 
Then it divides up the topic, 
and describes the details which are prevalent. 
The only fact that it needs to gloss over, 
our the details which are blank, or neutral, in some way. 
This way is the usual method, 
because most photographs are laid out
in such a way as to clean the topic. 
Consider if you will illustration, 
and the details that are important are labeled as such. 
We talked about Norman Rockwell, 
and this is a good example, 
because illustrator is something which is gleaned from a cursory example. 
But the large detail is not always the best, 
though much of the time it is, 
but for artwork, and especially high quality artwork, it is not the best. 
This is because in illustrator wants to make plain one fact, 
and all of the details are focused around this fact. 
In Norman Rockwell's paintings the detail is often a large dominant figure, 
examining one who is small, 
but they stand in reverse in the picture, 
the tiny figure is seated at a large, 
impact enormous, seat. 
While the large figure is seated on a tiny picture. 
This is not a coincidence, 
you will see at many of his fine pictures – 
even among this day. 
For example Kaanchi, 
none of the pictures are in the abstract.

 On the other hand, artwork, 
 as opposed to illustration, 
 gleans not from the inside, 
 nor from the outside, but layering. 
 It details the big picture, 
 which is not recognizable, 
 but it because they hidden things are not supposed to be recognized. 
 This is particularly true where the writing system is not English, 
 or anything directly related to English.
What I mean by this, is 
for example expressed in the writing system of Kashmiri, 
 which is directly related to the Sharda script language, 
 which has only a tangential meaning. 
 In modern terms it's written in the both the Perso-Arabic, 
 and the Devanagari script system. 
 But it was originally written Sharada system 
which reveals key details which are not in any of two main scripts. 
 This is in, and why Sharada is still used. In this form.


We can never, nor can we ever expect anything like the past. 
We know past because we have lifted 
and we have become alert, and then some.
But realize that years will first harden and then soft, 
and overtime it will be softened tool the point of numbing 
and that will be gradually the point where a new flank will be taken. 
And then it will come around again, 
are hard new reality will set in. 
Limbs will be heartened, 
and hardened again until the point of steel is reached. 
And people will look back 
and wonder why they weren't told before. 

Realize that they will both hard and soft, 
they will think of them selves 
as tough when in fact they are really really 
they are not tough at all. Because of front 
they will think of it as easy, 
and they will laugh at how easy it is. 

That is the truth that everybody else will think of their lives 
as tough because
they will think that it's really some other persons toughness. 
This is then the story of how someone rots in jail 
because countless others, did not. 

They had it easy, 
until one day they misunderstood 
that times were changing. 
It was a day like any other day in the 21st century, 
only it was a day late which would be the change, 
when lands were different only he weren't different at all, 
because they were the 20 century, 
and only time could tell the difference.

In the cities there was a great amount of effort 
and buzzing about this and that, 
cities that were once barren were no populous. 
And every one of them was bright 
even though the noise makers 
were really not saying anything that hadn't been said before. 
The people thought that there was ringing and claiming 
when really there was nothing going on at all. 
What they didn't realize was that the noise 
they were making was noise to them selves 
and a distant drum was beating to distant drummer, 
who did not have any.


Who ever just got pushed off the liberal train. 
Prosperity still a whisper on his lips. 
Days will go by and still he will think of the moment, 
when he rode the world, money rolled in. 
And all he need to do was to pick which toy to buy. 
He shows up on the internet, 
and tells everyone it doesn't have to be this way. 
But it does.
Because there aren't enough of him at any one time. 
The working class went down, 
and the programmers and lawyers fed on him.
The programmers went down, 
and the land bubblers feasted on them. 
The land bubblers went down, 
and the government workers feasted on them. 
Now the government workers are going down. 
Someone will feast on them. 
For a while. Then when that meal goes down, 
then there will be a bitter cold within. 
Yes, we're in a can.

“All we have to do...” he'll say. 
Except that it won't happen. 
It doesn't matter what can be done, 
it matters what will be done. 
And what will be done, 
is to look at the next dying soul on the raft of the Medusa.


Leadership is performance, 
you do not get a second chance at a crucial moment. 
The key to performance is preparation, 
the hours of practice, and having skills ready for use. 
Leadership, more than almost any other skill, 
is learned by transefering experiences 
and wisdom from people

It is not a thought but an act,
an act of thought that tips the focus,
and from the frothing mixture of observation poured over memory,
the fog of truth emerges.
Clarity is a lie: but an effective one.
The truth is the steam that rises from the clarity,
and it obscures that sharp sharp path to action.
A work of art, is a portrait in black and white,
made by staring at the infinite grey of the mists that are the truth.
How elusive that subject is,
compared to the object.
Yet tracing the trail of notes by a myriad of toiling hands and chins,
from which would arise the sound of musical truth,
infinitesimally specific, and infinitely indefinite.
Low flight these dark hours,
Half a hundred mothers have their fiercest fear etched on that day,
a dozen more have sons bebadged as heros of the resistance.
Its arc is the arc of empires,
driven by explosion,
and weighted by gravity.
It is a dusk. It is a dawn.
It is everything like the sun.

I should write

some thing about Zephyr Teachout   candidacy for New York governor.