BAKIN' LOVE: Sufjan Stevens on Jimmy Fallon. Perfect.

BAKIN' LOVE: Sufjan Stevens on Jimmy Fallon. Perfect.: "Watch in full screen only. I need to become one of those backup dancers. Voice lesson time."

Bishop Allen

click click click click/ Bishop Allen

Facebook | SAVE THE GULF MUSIC & POETRY FESTIVAL

Facebook | SAVE THE GULF MUSIC & POETRY FESTIVAL

X poem from X

Deep Water Horizon, Memorial Day, 2010

To me [belongeth] vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in [due] time: for the day of their calamity [is] at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste. -- Deu 32:35 (KJV) 
Medea is sitting by her kitchen table, plotting revenge
What shall become of this? Death is a bog, a mire that brings a Tharos near.
Medea considers of all of her fears like spending gravity.They are spilling out of her like the liquid petroleum from the channels of the seain the Gulf of Mexico.
The chorus says:"Flow back holy river of oil, whether it be unnatural to be reversed.does not matter--what matters is that it be first, and then we harvest these insolent japeriesfrom the men that caused the fraud, those that argue they will produce the desired results.
“Their casuistry is naked, and deepens the jeering.”Medea is thinking: “The oil companies have sent us poisoned robes, It is what I would have done to them had there been time. but instead we pray for their protection, like foolish ants.“
I shall do evil to those who have done this, and then pray that the changes upon the land and water shall guided by the hand of Providence.
“Now must it be undone, on top of it all, again! I trust that our destiny is true and vengeance has no vision for me any longer. “
"I am beaten and have trusted in fools. My bondage has been know for decades. I have not listened to Cassandra and can find the will of Zeus on my own."
Medea then got in her car and drove away. She did not stop at the bakery inside the organic market for her daily baguette, the one she would bring home and serve promptly for lunch.
The clouds has come down low against the mountain range. She was thousands of miles from  

New Poems by Luke Warm Water

Hear Blood Boy’s Prayer 

Blood boy surmised his culture

and tradition were distant enough

with the building of the new casino

among the ghost fog of

coniferous forest, dense with greed

so he prayed, like never before

to mixed-blood apparitions

teenager knees sunk into wet earth

teenager fingers white knuckle clutched

then separating into upward arms

neck craned, head lifted

skyward poker chips stacked

he cried in forgiveness want

for the great spirit

to finally bring him

a brand new pick-up truck

~LWW 5June2010

Oakland Underground Film Festival

http://www.oakuff.org/

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Fwd: Aqus Cafe Music & Events - carlmacki@gmail.com - Gmail

Fwd: Aqus Cafe Music & Events - carlmacki@gmail.com - Gmail

YouTube - She & Him - In the Sun

YouTube - She & Him - In the Sun

Topeka is Google

Facebook: "Very funny Google, what's next: a set of red china with a removable Google sticker? Since Google, I mean Topeka, will be Google for a while, do you think Lawrence would pay to be Bing? Naming cities like stadiums could catch on."

google.com

YouTube - BIRDMAN IN LISBON, PORTUGAL - Claudio Montuori

YouTube - BIRDMAN IN LISBON, PORTUGAL - Claudio Montuori

Jackie Gleason Manipulating Space and Time on Vimeo by Larry Carlson

Jackie Gleason Manipulating Space and Time on Vimeo by Larry Carlson
Originally uploaded by carlmacki

Larry Carlson would be an interesting conversation companion with Jack Sarfatti.

Praise, poem by Tina Chang

Praise
Tina Chang
Brooklyn Poet Laureate


All night long there was digging, and the bodies like accordions
bent into their own dying instruments, and even after this,

after the quake, there was, in news reports, still singing:
A woman's clapping was followed by another who shuffled

and dragged her own apparition through the ruined streets,
though each one knew the anthem the other was singing.

History taught them better. No one was coming.
The film crews had their sights on the large hotels,

the embassies. So they set to digging with their hands
and with the shoes of those who were no longer alive.

And with that, night fell and fell again
like an old black pot tumbling to the ground.

When a man dies, the first thing that goes is his breath,
and the last thing that goes is his memory.

I once saw this civilization passing through a great white door,
people weeping, then the weeping was followed by the sound

of tambourines rattling the heavy air, something that sounded
like celebration only livelier and more holy, voices rising,

and then a marching into the dusty road of the next century.
When shelter is gone, find your solace on the ground.

And when the ground is gone, lift yourself and walk.
And after all the great monuments of your memory

have collapsed, with the sky steady above you,
you shatter that too, with song

American Life in Poetry: Column 254

Welcome to American Life in Poetry. For information on permissions and usage, or to download a PDF version of the column, visit www.americanlifeinpoetry.org.

******************************

American Life in Poetry: Column 254

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

What might my late parents have thought, I wonder, to know that there would one day be an occupation known as Tooth Painter? Here’s a partial job description by Lucille Lang Day of Oakland, California.

Tooth Painter

He was tall, lean, serious
about his profession,
said it disturbed him
to see mismatched teeth.
Squinting, he asked me
to turn toward the light
as he held an unglazed crown
by my upper incisors.
With a small brush he applied
yellow, gray, pink, violet
and green from a palette of glazes,
then fired it at sixteen hundred
degrees. We went outside
to check the final color,
and he was pleased. Today
the dentist put it in my mouth,
and no one could ever guess
my secret: there’s no one quite
like me, and I can prove it
by the unique shade of
the ivory sculptures attached
to bony sockets in my jaw.
A gallery opens when I smile.
Even the forgery gleams.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2009 by Lucille Lang Day and reprinted from The Curvature of Blue, Cervena Barva Press, 2009, by permission of Lucille Lang Day and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. 

Paris in Renault

Paris in Renault 

Author: Ali Abdolrezaei

Translation: Abol Froushan

 

Out of the blue,  past so many deaths we were born - mad

how would we know the mirror forgets whatever it sees

we believed the wind gets through the chink of  the wall

how would we know the wind stays behind a closed door

senselessly past so many deaths we are a graveyard across

we U turn only a hop away from our destination

we weave in and out of outdistancing one another

How many more margins does our distance stretch?

 

This damned hooha rising from which neighbourhood window

which damned ear does it corner in?

And revolves around which clock hand?

This very tomorrow which rained a remote smile on lips heads

in which station of the wind shall I stand to say Seven?

 

I'm such a weeping willow for all this withstanding the wind unswayed

that in the whereabouts of the hand on the clock

     worn-out by this coming and going of all the Sevens   I'm spent

what town calls out its travellers to return? Which road?

 

I swear in the name of the water that drips from our hand

I won't shrink from wanting you

you just write Death all over my letters   

I will live!

 

 

Mr! Hey Taxi! Tour of all Isfahan for a thousand!

I threw thirty hearts to the sea  to keep three arches for lovers on Khaju bridge

Madam! I'm not afraid of the police

I can raise havoc

and dream long pavement crowds of the main street

rioting in dreamy love making heaths

At times fear is a lecherous mayor

who parks his mistress

Sir! I can move from this house too

become the sidled dream of walls

and be no gypsy lover

I won't blame the moon for distance

this rain that has brought the sea to my side

is a saying that speaks

like a poem  or the youth I left behind on a bicycle

I won't blame the moon for distance

When there was no way through

you so short cut that Saturday it poured down from my calendar

There are only two paths ahead

I won't take the third

 

I am woebegone at the foot of the poem I am writing

Just say I love you and die

these days  star means the ultimate woman who's coming

 

The kite was only a lifelong captive in my hands

A man who with a kiss on a hand calls an old city

A man who walked on his weeping

slept in the dream of your eyes

I am far enough from the sea to be a heretic for you

sit in my eyes and pray at the bottom of the sea

these days star means the ultimate woman who comes

 

After her 'bird's a goner' poem

like an apple living on a tree side  I am wonder struck

and don't know that I means which?

 

Roads arrive from town to town

bridges from highway to parallel highway

why don't we arrive anywhere?

Still the mirror jails an unnamable

that does everyone's loneliness

Still everywhere there's a road   for me to traverse

no pedestrian is the last one alone

no pedestrian practised the man

no pedestrian ever asked hey Mr

and my spouse wept last night 

for the coffee house that died under water last night 

for the sea embracing the houses last night 

I saw the Sea of Chamkhalee in my notebook   and crossed it out

the poem is not like the poet

each night wanting a new bosom

you want to let me go?

You think I'll die of grief?

I'll go North              Never mind the girls who don't rhyme

 

- Ding!  Dong!

 

- Who is it?

 

- It's the Milkman.     O the Milkman!

 

Sorry! I have no child to get more milk

No name to peddle around town

For all the gauges gaping at I Know Not

when do we arrive anywhere?

There where we arrive may be not where you are

for one night that hasn't gone in my arms, stay with me

I'll be spending my days knocking around the margins

following out fallen in love - ever toward you

Even though I hear no wailing in this instrument

say a word and I'll become the song of the reed

I wish the sky had a heart to tear away from me

I wish it hinted at when we'll be feathered together

I'd not have picked from desire's bunch of grapes

and wouldn't have said this bottle shall be wine

I said hey,              bring back my furthest desire

what shall I do it didn't work out,  will I be yours? Hey?

I wanted to offer you so much heart

to hell it didn't work out, I'll fall in love with another

 

 

Not much time was left to the conversation of the cockerels

 

I said Right

 

I can't sleep again

 

I said Right

 

They must have gagged the cockerels

 

I said Right

 

I had to tell you   Good bye!

 

As I was saying right          she hung up

 

 

I'm standing next to the door

the architecture of your body is etched 

on the bed in the corner of the floor

I keep puffing  and staring at the hanger

trouser legs from behind whose stripes a bird flew

 

I wish I clipped its wings forever

 

Where are you carrying these days?

Whatever there was in the mirror, the pictures intimated

How can I find all sevens in the mirror?

How many more margins does our distance stretch?

How many more seconds   Ha?

 

You pounded the sea on the opposite wall so I sit and watch the extravagance of youth on my face?  Just two clock hands till dawn can I stay in the corner of the square, where are your windows?

 

Next to a man turning the pages of history I flew a glimpse to the skies and said how blue are your eyes!

But my biro was not always blue

only our faces see the mirror and through the chink of a wall  a woman

those days my thoughts strolled through the windows of the class

and paused so long on the tree opposite

that autumn  beckoned falling in the village

and breaking              kept calibrating the wind on my wings

 

I arrived late for a lifetime

like all the benches in the park

that were installed for the falling of leaves

I'm sick of all this

which road's pebble broke this window?

Who is the one over my hair who left?

They put a night on day and say

yesterday left, today passed away, what do you do tomorrow?

Sometimes I have died a thousand men

Sometimes I have torn God apart

I've lost you in your own very eyes

like the neon death of    MIRROR MAN of Armani Street 

                                      MIRROR MA  of A ma i  treet 

                MI ROR MA  o     ma     eet  

                MI  OR MA        ma       et 

                    I   OR  A       ma        t 

                I  O   A     ma         t 

                            I  O   A      m     

                   I                     

                                        zzz zapped out...                    

                                                                                                    

 

Water has brought a mirror to watch

the sound of my skin and the alleys 

that open out a window on my brow

Gossip dropped in on a sitting 

of the women of the alley whose doors had sunset

and gave autumn away to the branches  

simply to take you away from me

I have not trampled the yellow of all the leaves 

to ask your forgiveness

The pomegranate that was shelved on the branch 

never went hunting for suitors

they put a guitar in my hand and a rendez-vous for never

they strolled around in my eyes

snatched all pictures in the mirror

and never noticed this branch doesn't give a stop to the sky

 

Always the one who slips goes all the way to the bottom 

                                                                                    of the precipice, I know

Nevertheless what ever I see in the mirror, is still me

Take a handful of water and tell my face what secret it has to tell             

The pomegranate that is toothless?!

If it weren't for the trees, how would you see autumn?

If spring left, how would neighbourhood apples turn red?

I know the one who says 'I love you' has snatched all the apples

otherwise all these stones are the only excuse 

for the windows' broken smile

 

 

The sound that rushed through the reed has brought me here to say you! 

For you to come back from the most closed window

sit at my table 

and let that debauched flame which fired at the wing of the moth 

come to put a fire on the logs and the alley 

to be the haunting ground of so many cockerels 

so people see me falling asleep behind a door to say you!

A you who would say, behind every window 

there is at times a closed window, why close again?

Sometimes all the clock hands arrive

so you return 

and on the side of a street which dawns next to tomorrow 

be the green light of me so much if you  

if you come back  

I'll take that far holy city to my birthplace

'cause you are more beautiful than very

as grand as the dome of the mosque

you're just these carpet flowers and these eyes 

that flower on road sides

 

Strolling on the summer of Chamkhalee, 

your hair on my shoulder or is it raining?

If you come back I won't kill myself

If you stay I won't do that either

 

Every year, like the girls who come, she goes

I thought, just write - You...

                                 the rest is just the murmur of the rain

Sometimes when drop by drop it puts fingers on your shoulder 

it wants you to come back and take the sea that has fallen by the wayside

these very circles that reach each other on the water and hold hands

 

 

-Hello              that means you're a poet?

 

- If you take smaller than two steps, there is a house I have

 

 

The rain weeps berries in your garden

 

No one says yes twice!

 

Coolies run around to pick the next load and die empty

Our lives that are passing  are not past                          

if you walk       even death won't reach

Always the one who wants without permission

                                 loses without permission

So you alone watch whatever tears I bring

Then               write Death all over my letters

                                                     I shall live

 

 

Without a vase for a lifetime

I have poured a river out of the sea in my backyard 

I am bored with the sea surrounding me and the Caspian's plea, 

how can I return to Tehran, where I've left myself behind?

No longer will I go back to those days of Langerood 

- hot and humid climate suits death

I adore Tehran of Friday's parks, why should I return?

Fallen into the tea cup and the spoon's wake

my eyes keep swaying in and out of

you so stir together sugar, water and wine

they form an accent for all the fantasies I have for you

you're so cold and cruel you drink up the walls 

not knowing the mirror doesn't forget its glimpses

When I think of you, I let the window embrace me 

and wipe the moon with a cloth 

that sucks the dust off our pictures

I take no umbrella there, nor wear a hat 

the rain is just me who comes sobbing

            not wine but end to end water

I'm so brimming full my bottle's overflown

this falling over myself has crests like the sea

but I don't know  which hand's throw is upon you? - Me?

When will I be palled to pal around?

But my bent branch was not immune

from the thrown ravages of stone

The one who found a moth flown on fire 

is not me. You, the sun and me the earth 

lived like a lone moth on fire, even though wings 

paid in moths for my glowing desire, how can I 

put a guard at the door of the house I have not?

The red of which branch was it that drove me mad?

How can I travel the apple

through a town that inherited zilch?

Not a bubble      but a feather  

through so much wind              

that I have lost from a canary wing

I'm the dashed lines of a rain not inclined to fall out of your sight

I am gone from myself like the wave on a beach

As wave upon wave of the sea 

I am falling upon myself