open/bukowski_spins.md
@@ -1,39 +1,39 @@
## Bukowski spins
"Food to share."
A warm and inviting sentiment
painted white across a green wooden
box, weathered by time and and chipped by
soil, reaches out from a feed numbed
by the callow perhaps offensive notion
that a poet's words are less than art;
less than the opening to this or that world;
less than the sigils and sounds and syllables
of pain bleeding through alcoholic reality.
"Food to share."
A warm and inviting sentiment
painted white across a green wooden
box, weathered by time and and chipped by
soil, reaches out from a feed numbed
by the callow perhaps offensive notion
that a poet's words are less than art;
less than the opening to this or that world;
less than the sigils and sounds and syllables
of pain bleeding through alcoholic reality.
"Bukowski!" they yell.
Bukowski had a secret and we can use
it to write better copy to sell more
useless shit to people who might have
been better off if we dropped the content
and dropped the marketing and just spoke
through virgin words without concern for the dollar.
"Bukowski!" they yell.
Bukowski had a secret and we can use
it to write better copy to sell more
useless shit to people who might have
been better off if we dropped the content
and dropped the marketing and just spoke
through virgin words without concern for the dollar.
"Bukowski!" again.
You see, it's all about the line.
So what if his line was something of a switchblade;
sharp and hidden and lethal to the fat belly of
low-level, fast-food, high fructose content hacks.
There is something in his approach that we can use to
sell this thing that nobody anywhere will ever really need.
"Bukowski!" again.
You see, it's all about the line.
So what if his line was something of a switchblade;
sharp and hidden and lethal to the fat belly of
low-level, fast-food, high fructose content hacks.
There is something in his approach that we can use to
sell this thing that nobody anywhere will ever really need.
"Food to share."
Pure healthy green food to share.
Grown and given for no other reason
than the rightness of feeding each other.
At human scale, face to face, food is poetry.
But here in RSS the poetics of organic
produce grind against the syndicated feed
of bitter and lonely sales messages.
And though we feel informed we still
starve for the simple truth that only
the living, breathing, teaming soil can provide.
No newline at end of file
"Food to share."
Pure healthy green food to share.
Grown and given for no other reason
than the rightness of feeding each other.
At human scale, face to face, food is poetry.
But here in RSS the poetics of organic
produce grind against the syndicated feed
of bitter and lonely sales messages.
And though we feel informed we still
starve for the simple truth that only
the living, breathing, teaming soil can provide.
No newline at end of file
open/looking_out_and_over.md
eleted file mode 100644
@@ -1,13 +0,0 @@
## Looking out and over
He stood in front of sliding glass looking out and over the pink of a crayon colored number 2, past the weathered wooden deck, and into a damp winter-gray yard. Color, sleeping since fall, made a stand against the season as streaks of yellow swing chains unused and moved only by wind at the back of the yard.
The new year had come and it brought with it all the new things that years will bring. There were new television shows, new books, new recordings, new people, new money. Yes, there were long and rambling lists of things that had never been that now are.
Waiting for the coffee and letting the morning spill into him one note at a time, he realized, there, on that spot, looking out and over a crayon colored "2" that he had let some part of himself oversleep. That crayon colored "2" was more than just a happy reminder of everything that he had--more than just a simple cut out beginning to 2013--more than a happy new year.
As he stood there looking out and over the crayon colored number 2 he was looking forward to be sure. But there was some critical part of him - some memory of the person he used to want to be - that was just now emerging from the fog of a unfortunately warm January mist. Perhaps he stood there in parallel. Perhaps there was indeed that once future version of himself there next to him thinking less technically about the color of the yard. It would be, had to be him, but him as a splinter of time.
The two of them stood there looking out through sliding glass only just now becoming aware of each other. They were two of many worlds impossible and unknowable and cosmically remote. Yet they were there together alone with only images for communication. Impressions, a shared qualia so fine and so particular yet not necessarily solitary, ran in a current along some unidentifiable field.
The coffee was ready. One drip, one press, one dark, one blonde, one mug, one cup, one milk, one sugar.