you probably didn't think i did

so what's in store on this deadly cooked up saturday--me in my unexpectedly good mood, taking woodstock then some devils. and this lovely song which despite its complicated setting always makes me incredibly cheerful--


Joan baez love is a four letter word
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made of paper

darlings

i'm done with my first cup of tea and soon would head downstairs to fetch more-- have my radio on and the windows are open wide but little air comes in. the heat sweeps whatever remains of the daily struggles. it's impossible to feel enthusiastic about any thing in this damn weather.

anywho-- i'm hoping the tea soon would wake me up but who knows, if not you guys just have to put up with my weary ramblings. truth is i don't really have anything major to talk about--except this sudden mood swing i got this afternoon. i felt a little drowsy and depressed in the morning, work had been hell for the last two days with one too many hours every evening, it had been painful to come home in traffic and heat, my body was giving up and my nerves weren't exactly holding their end of the bargain.

adding all to that was the ragged working man crouching by the sidewalk with a worn out plastic plate in his hand having his iftar dinner who in between all my tears made them even flow faster last night while i was trying to make it home

then this morning was pretty much gloomy and all. but work was slightly better and by later this evening i was too busy with sorting out profiles and preparing name tags and arranging proper lists and all that i got sidetracked and lost all about my heavy feelings and uneasiness and instead was filled with warm feelings of home and accomplishment. then i got the chance to do something i hadn't done in a while--sit around at the bus stop for some time and read until the bus arrives. i know it sounds lame but it just lit up my entire day. everything turned cheerful all of a sudden. 30 pages of my good man fyodor and the world is a better place.

i wish i could tell you more but i can't really do so with this weather--you can't even be an observant in this heat let alone a story teller. so i think i'm gonna take my leave now read a little more and then go to bed. if i don't melt into a puddle first.

keep cool.

bang bang, shoot shoot

is it me or do normal people too wonder randomly about meanings of beatles songs?

anywho i will try to get back to you guys tonight but with this state of exhaustion i am not making any promises.

...

"I’ve given up the game, I’ve got to leave
The pot of gold is only make-believe
The treasure can’t be found by men who search
Whose gods are dead and whose queens are in the church"

in response to...

...comrade in name asks "how does those storms and waves suddenly just grows quiet" and that is a very good question but i think one similar to "how does a poet just go on living in one ordinary world with all his extraordinary mightiness" or "how did the earth ever managed to contain ezra pound" or "why did dostoyevski ever had to pay bills" and so on feelings a few of us tend to see at the heart of all that exists but they are not neither are the words and it's life and it goes on and extraordinary just pushes and pulls and fits and love just slowly goes away

(thought i am saying this in this very rational tone i myself do not believe it love if slows down and loses pace is not love love if it allows you to just wake up in the morning and live your life is not love love if it lets you belong to someone else is not love--so no i do not believe storms dissappear and screams are stifled-- i just believe the true kind that never would just rarely exists among a handful of very lucky people)

love's loneliness

who would have thought --look what the poem of the day was

The mountain throws a shadow,
Thin is the moon's horn;
What did we remember
Under the ragged thorn?
Dread has followed longing,
And our hearts are torn.

W.B.Y

...

i looked for venom and anger
and revenge best served cold
dashed in deepest darkest forests pulled out bleeding strawberries with thorns stuck in my wrists
dug my heels deep into the night
hand went absentmindedly first to eliot to feel sorry for myself
then turned to dear lover ezra
hoping to find such flame and arrogance
ah but failed
how i failed
ezra is quiet docile tonight
sighs and even smiles

hard rain

i just remembered this morning in a flash of light as i walked down that little tunnel that takes you down to the subway that the other night in my drunken haze i stopped in the middle of the street and gave whatever change i could come up with to that boy with the flute---that boy that boy whom i saw once in a while by the stairs of the subway who has been weighing on my conscience more than anything i've ever known--that little boy with his litle fingers playing the notes crooked and unsuccesfully but god who cares--that little boy that makes me wish i was more of a believer

i even stroked his hair if i recall it correctly his little head and his little life and this morning as i looked around not believing what i had done and i started crying as i always do

"reality being too thorny for my lofty character"

says rimbaud

midnight rambler

2 songs that one could easily die for as one does with honor in some loving russian duel

wanderin' - dave van ronk


where did you sleep last night- leadbelly
http://www.divshare.com/download/12231637-9ea

...

"I kissed goodbye the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me"


ah bobby.

now, how does it feel?

ah children

time is just memory mixed with desire says the great tom waits. and boy is he right.

i am officially 4 days into my 21st year now (or 22nd i just never managed to work those out anywho) and last night for the 4th time i celebrated my birthday with a lovely group of friends. i do have a lot to say i do really but this heat is choking me up and i seem incapable to put pen to paper but i'm slowly getting my wings back--been listening to good old bobby the way i used to for the last few days without resentment or weariness just the way i used to before all this not being able to write thing came up and last night was fun and beautiful from seeing familiar faces toast in my name to seeing my childhood friend to getting drunk to holding a pretty kitten in my arms in the middle of the night (you can only do that in this poem-like city) to feelings emotions and all that jazz and all was wonderful and all made me realize that there is one single purpose to all this struggle the only thing we're in vain to give or receive and we read and write and hope and try to find that--and that is love--and life is nothing but vague backdrops in a gigantic on going desperate struggle to just get love


i looked around scared last night thinking i was the only one who noticed that

me and possibly jim.

...

dear bob calming the down as he does on this very confusing depressing tiring inbalanced saturday morning

no reason to wander no reason to roam

funny thing not being able to write is
right here in my stomach a little up maybe in my lungs could as well be in my heart
tried finding a cure in songs and pushkin poems
asked bukowski too
has a few lovely depressing honest things to say on it
i even tried to fake love
which sadly failed
me of all people
wonder why i even thought i could

i could not even
keep a journal
for the life of me.

but then again
it could be the heat

footnote to 21

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!

that was all that kept ringing in my ear last night fueled up with tequila staring out to the dark street

Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!

holy allen holy allen holy me

21

as of midnight today i will be 21 years old.

that'll make me

6 years younger than jimmy ever was
8 years younger than a obscene poetic ginsberg spitting out the first lines of the great howl
3 years younger than dylan recording blonde on blonde
9 years younger that kerouac rumblin' on the road




4 years older than rimbaud rushing of the verlaine to become a great poet
5 years older than whitman moving to new york


huh.