tune

ah morning rain
and the suze song.

...

some people--can't call'em lonesome, can't call'em individual but there is something else about them-- they live for themselves by themselves with themselves they don't feel the need to share to include or to be included--don't get me wrong they're not antisocial, they are social as hell but whatever they do they do it themselves--it's hard to explain really but it's sad--and i don't know why they ended up like that but man they are blend and colorless and a sad sad waste of time

the subterraneans

sometimes good things in life happen like good ol' bob crackin' a smile or a pound poem finally letting you-- esp most appreciated when you feel as lost ashen bored pointless aimless useless as i've been feeling lately-- this one is one of those:

http://seslidusunenege.blogspot.com/


for there is nothing else better that sincerity wrapped up in a few friendly laughters to turn a frown upside down

...

leading a normal life
with endless seconds of work and frequent nights of dinners and drinks

kills the poet




this may bring back memories

july 3rd...

...is when i will be gone to a place where i can get a hold of that softly glowing childhood of mine--so i won't be here to mark yet another unmarked grave, but though i'll be away i'll be here- there- and everywhere that gentle spirit walks leaving a trail of cool water and lilies and i will think of him and life and death love and the muse-- my vaguness my weariness my indecisiveness disappearing under the soft feathered wings of an angel--

and when i do return i hope i will have a few more words to say on him
on that soft spot
of humanity
on my muse and my sad sad friend
on my jim.

july...

"Now is blessed
The rest
remembered"

J.M.

july...

"can you picture
what will be
so limitless and free
desperately in need of
some stranger's hand
in a desperate land"

july...

..is when one should be free.

"Did you know freedom exists in a school book
Did you know madmen are running our prison
w/in a jail, w/in a gaol, w/in a white free protestant
Maelstrom

We're perched headlong
on the edge of boredom
We're reaching for death
on the end of a candle
We're trying for something
That's already found us"

J.M.

summer days summer nights

all right--never done this before (posting at length at work) but here it goes. some of the few remarks over the past few days.

first and foremost--last night. i got to see a good friend of mine that i hadn't been able to see in a while--a friend of mine with whom i have struck a pleasent chord--we seem to be able to coexist on a very ironic sincere fun basis and he's one of those people whose goodness of the heart i am certain of. moreover we got to discuss stuff (as people do when that bitter taste of alcohol swirls down their throats) about why people think of things and won't tell or what or how you could be "soul-less" and how and why should affections be shown--whether or not there are dangerous phone numbers that always comes up when you're drunk or how drunk is ok drunk and all that. ah and we talked about conflicting acts and emotions. i said what i've always believed in--that one should either "be as you seem or seem as you are" (a lovely turkish phrase that once finally in my life popped into my head instead of some eliot opening or pound snippet)and any other way is just trouble. if you do something then make damn sure you want to do it, or that you feel like doing it--crying afterwards doesn't count. it makes one think that either at the time of the act one wasn't sincere or at the time after it. my dear friend with a good heart and a solid future, facing my rock hard hatret of "phony" people-- i hope understood my point--"I'm working on that."

and there are the other beautifult things that lurk on a night like that one--the tram that has the live band hooked behind it--the single most greatest thing ever happened in this city, the dusty yellow butterflies that have invaded everywhere, the heat that flows through your tongue right after the wind does, the wine itself, obviously; trying to order to some random fella having a smoke by the stairs thinking he was the waitress because a minute before i had announced "man they're all tattood all the way to their wrists"; trying to find those little machines (hıbıd as i decided to call them) to take a stupid lousy picture on the streets we walked about 7 million times all our lives --and the pleasure one takes from that, taking pictures and moving and getting to places and then getting to newer places, and that friend of mine with the good heart and the solid future saying "why don't you ever let anyone be quiet"

considering that i spent my last 2 weeks practically on the streets-i'm left now with no money and no energy but lovely memories and good stories of summer days and summer nights--

went home last night to grandma's place who wasn't there, so watched some tv and locked the door myself and all the great things that you do when you're alone, put the trash out, woke up on my own, got breakfast from a bakery. then there i walk on the streets of my life--that little town which is ironically called if you translate it properly "the green village"that town that town like no other will be where i will one day leave my childhood behind

anywho there i walk and blasts in like a rolling stone and we walked with bob slowly down the empty streets lost in a conversation entirely of our own

so now it's a new day. i'm planning take the rest of the week off to get my sleeping back in order and to spend some time on my own. you know me i like having my good time but lord knows i need my rest

so so long for now. hope i'll be able post again soon.

all the truth in the world adds up to one big lie

if it was up to me there'd be someone waiting at the gates of heaven (may there be one) and look into whomever's eyes and say "there you've been honest go ahead" or "no you've been lying get out now"--not that anybody cares about that old tsar honesty anymore but me--i suppose--you should either lie at every word you say or tell the truth--see you lie for one and one reason only i have never lied to anyone but when i'm scared--so you either wanna avoid someone else or yourself or some sorta flee of some sort--i say all liars are cowards and all cowards are liars--and i'd die before i admit i let someone scare me that much--as the wise man once said "who are you that i should have to lie"--sometimes man sometimes i feel like i'm the only one who gets at the meaning of these songs

...

"kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help."

An Almost Made Up Poem -- Charles Bukowkski

soft bastard

just like
that poet once said
just because i love latin
doesn't mean latin must love me back

or

something like that

angels beating their wings in time

"In a class [in 1966], while waitig for the last few students to take their seats, i casually asked, "Do you recognize the name Jim Morrison?" My students were shocked by my ignorance. "Don't you know the Doors? He's the lead singer." My stock dropped low that morning in my classroom. I had lost favor. To recuperate and the steady my nerves, I held up the letter and said: "Give me a chance! Let me read this letter to you."

Dear Wallace Fowlie,
Just wanted to say thanks for doing the Rimbaud translation. I needed it because I don't read French that easily... I am a rock singer and your book travels around with me.

The class was quietly attentive by this time, and I said to them, "There's one more sentence, a post-scriptum at the bottom of the page:"

That Picasso drawing of Rimbaud on the cover is great."

Wallace Fowlie

an almost made up post

oh dear, it's 9 o'clock or something, the city is at some sort of a "cold grey dawn" and i don't really know whose late nights friends leave whom where but i do know that i have a long day ahead--possible over 14 hours i 'll be answering phones sending invitations talking to cosul generals drinking tea and the afternoon coffe i make for myself black and warm cause i'm a grown up now and then strolling around the streets in taksim with one of the friendly faces i'm hoping to see tonigh--time never stops or breathes and i'm tired and running on a few hours of sleep and here i am sitting on my desk with my phones and my computers just like everyone else--but my tolstoy spread out over, my thoughts wondering whether or not prince andrew is half as mighty as mitya, and my bukowski smoking a cheap cigarette on my blue screen--i listened to shine a light on my way here for the 89th time in two days

...

"At times all I would need is a single word, a simple little word of no importance, to be great, to speak in the voice of the prophets: a word of witness, a precise word, a subtle word, a word well steeped in my marrow, gone out of me, which would stand at the outer limit of my being,

and which, for everyone else, would be nothing.

I am the witness, I am the only witness of myself. This crust of words, these imperceptible whispered transformations of my thought, of that small part of my thought which I claim has already been formulated, and which miscarries,

I am the only person who can measure its extent."

A.A.