::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum 08.28.09:::
“Write in recollection and amazement for yourself.” Jack Kerouac
Black grey city with light blue sky (above) by Adam Yeater, one of over 20 resident artists hanging in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery!
Hey all you ca-razy chicks & daddy-o's out there, do you know what today is? Today is the day we dig on some poetry and then spread the mad, Mad Swirlin' Poetry Forum word to the you hipsters out there. Can you dig? We know that you can...
Go!...Go!...Go!...
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
MOURNER’S KADDISH
We do not speak of the dead when we say the Mourner’s Kaddish
& yet, in praising Hashem, in this prayer of life, we remember
them.
When we recite the Mourner’s Kaddish, we do not mention their
names; we pray to Hashem, our G-d, the Holy One, & vanish within
the vast universe of this prayer, becoming the Kaddish, perhaps, and
in this holy union, we remember them.
Holy, holy, holy is life and its mysterious twin, emanating from
Hashem.
Now, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish and praise our G-d for blessing
us with the sacred breath of Being.
After, we breathe deeply, slowly, experiencing memalleh, the filling of
the Void, inhaling His holy presence, fully alive!
- Mel Waldman
(2 poems added 08.28.09)
Drifter
The village elders wrap themselves in umbrella cloaks
and tease soapy yellow dominoes
they watch the blond one arrive
they listen to his strange curses
and exchange knowing glances when he stumbles
through the soggy breath of a unfamiliar morning.
They sit erect when he nears her keeper
the waxen one who greets every intelligent glance
with the limp barrel of his revolver
they salivate at the transfer of greenbacks
before noting his successful passage
into the catacombs of promised pleasure.
When a dry yellow sun chokes off
the last vestiges of the afternoon;
they are quick to observe his casual retreat
and watch him mount an earth encrusted jeep,
noting the mumbled prayers
people often make after confession.
That night they ignore their games
and sample the air with their tongues
hoping to taste his distant headlamps plodding,
seeking a passage, etching the protective heights
with fleeting, oddly twisted halos.
- J. R. Salling
(added 08.27.09)
MAKE IT SLOW
The pace quickening,
spreading meltdown
city, town, hut,
lowering tired heads under the weight,
pulling the shade down
on the vibrating window,
pretend not to see
buckling landscapes,
deliver me
into your realm,
seconds ticking,
swelling to burst,
unbutton your blouse
humming your song,
make it slow...
- Stephen Jarrell Williams
(1 poem added 08.26.09)
The Last Seat
thelastopenseatonthefinalbusboughtwithpreservedchange
isd apple dwit hcru mbs
bru
tal
ly
bru
shing
thec rumb sfro m thes eat
they
leap
and
set
tle
ba
ck
on
the
plu
sh
- Brian Edward Bahr
(added 08.25.09)
Fifteen items or less
standing in the
express checkout lane
i count the items
of the chick
in front of me
just to make sure.
and then my items,
just to be safe
and even his items,
the guy behind me
because sometimes
i'm moralistic that way
and i like to keep
track of things
like that.
and if your items exceed 15,
i will not confront you directly,
or out you publically,
just secretly glare at you and loathe you
and judge you and
project all the bad qualities
i don’t like about myself onto you:
selfish.
rude.
ignorant.
and you’ll know, yes you’ll know that i know.
i look to the magazines
to see Jon and Kate
and i’m trying not to hate –
cuz i feel you, Kate, i do
i’ve been a fucking bitch too,
except i didn’t have the world watching
and waiting with glee me
to see me fall on my face
to point while i fell from grace
i look to the aging hippie with her Birkenstocks
and khaki shorts in front of me, she's made some
very healthy choices,
i see...
organic skim milk small curd cottage cheese.
whole grain bread, the fancy kind,
i'm talking the five dollars a loaf kind.
for bread. crazy.
don’t tell me- no...
she even has granola in her cart
and now suddenly, she has become a cliché.
and then, from out of no-where
i get this crazy thought.
i didn’t ask for this thought, mind you,
sometimes thoughts just come
and i have this stunning epiphany:
this woman
has a pussy
in her pants.
it’s true! she does!
it blows my mind a little
to think of her bush-
hiding out in there, under her clothes
and i start to marvel at
the wonder of it all.
she even has a clit, just like i do,
and someone maybe gets her off,
although from the looks
of her groceries,
it’s likely she does it herself.
and i have to wonder-
is she trimmed all tidy like a porn star?
or is it hairy, and bushy
like a 70s porn star?
is it big and loose and relaxed,
hanging out like an fat old cat
on the front porch or
small and pretty, contained,
folded neatly like a shirt at the gap?
then i take this further and i look around,
taking in every woman
in the whole goddamned Kroger
and her secret vagina.
it's crazy! all of us! we're all standing around
with our vaginas safely tucked away, hidden from view.
pretending they don't exist.
but they're there.
and the idea blows my mind,
see cuz usually i go around as if
i'm the only one with a vagina,
like the rest of the world might just have
smooth plastic crotches,
like barbies.
and tonight!
i look around this room
and i am thinking
about the hidden treasures
all around me -
hairy, unruly
overgrown temples, neat, polite and friendly envelopes,
sealed with a kiss... and all the pussies in between...
yeah, that’s right... i'm picturing your pussy.
go ahead, you can picture mine.
and the penises! don't even get me started on the penises!
that’s a whole other mind trip in itself,
all of ‘em hanging around, dangling all casually,
spying on us from behind their zippers
like hidden microphones... don’t even get me started.
cuz in this moment, ladies, its aaaall
about the vajayjay
sacred sexy,
slick or sticky,
the vagina in me
honors the vagina in you.
VAGASTE.
SO! back at Kroger,
fifteen items or less,
pussies all around me, all i can do is
marvel at it all...
i start to feel
so alive, so real.
to realize we're all hiding,
we're all so covered up
all the time, yet within each of us burns a fire,
lives a soul, beats a heart pumping with hot blood,
our vaginas hidden in secret spaces,
moist and ripe with reality.
i breathe in the sweet magical
truth of it all,
all of us, standing in line, with our hearts
and our cunts and
our souls and cocks
and secrets
and treasures and tongues and tales
and groceries and all i can do
is smile and breeeeathe.
its MY turn now, and
YES I have a Kroger Plus Card and YES
i may have 17 items but three items
are the same cans of stewed tomatoes,
so i count them as one.
and YES i have a pussy
and YES plastic’s okay,
and YES i DID, indeed,
find everything I needed today and then some.
and YES I WILL have a great day...
YOU have a great day, too.
- Lisa Olson
(1 poem added 08.24.09)
At Waltham Abbey
Why when rain makes everything soft can't we find cause
for care?
We do, but later, when we've decided we won't move.
Not to the sexy Midlands, not this year.
Now I have a plan and feel the future as a track
of ochre gravel that trains time for architecture.
The slant of the roof and the tunnelled lane.
My father chattered like a tree of birds
and the stubble green paddocks sent wet fire
to our eyes.
None of us had seen such lush and pushy crops.
Now the jailbreak is an exit from petty town walls
and a hope of tranquility in the convict street.
- Jesse Shipway
(added 08.23.09)
Situation
Whatever care of citizen
Less poverty display duty
Much positive ill-founded
Those responsible for chaos
Confusion against the fact
Fraction displacement in history
Reports failed to return
Fearful promised grant
Camps are security
Food stopped until further notice.
- Sarah Ahmad
(added 08.22.09)
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
Do you feel a bit more hip? A tad more mad? How 'bout Beat? Then our job here is finished...for today!
But this whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps beginning... now... now... now! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Just point your thumb down that road and catch a ride to this swirling madness whenever you get the urge to howl. This Beat-en path to the poetic conversations going on in the Poetry Forum is always a-hoppin'!
If any of you hipsters reading this are loco locals (Dallas/Ft Worth) and dig the whole Mad Swirl of everything that keeps coming, dig this...
We're Beat-in' up the Open Mic! Mad Swirl continues doing the poetic & musical open mic voodoo that what we do do on 09:02:09. A Night of Beat-itudes will be our ode to the Beats that inspired us to be what we be. Join beat aficionado Opalina Salas and a crew of mad ones as they remind us why these Beat poets, writers & musicians still hold a place in our mad, mad hearts. After that, it's on to open mic madness as we gather together all you mad ones to do the voodoo that you do! be there or be...
Yes! Yes! YES!
Johnny O
Chief Mad Daddy-o
MH Clay
Poetry Editing Hep Cat
“Nothing is true, everything is permitted.” William S. Burroughs
Black grey city with light blue sky (above) by Adam Yeater, one of over 20 resident artists hanging in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery!
Hey all you ca-razy chicks & daddy-o's out there, do you know what today is? Today is the day we dig on some poetry and then spread the mad, Mad Swirlin' Poetry Forum word to the you hipsters out there. Can you dig? We know that you can...
Go!...Go!...Go!...
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
MOURNER’S KADDISH
We do not speak of the dead when we say the Mourner’s Kaddish
& yet, in praising Hashem, in this prayer of life, we remember
them.
When we recite the Mourner’s Kaddish, we do not mention their
names; we pray to Hashem, our G-d, the Holy One, & vanish within
the vast universe of this prayer, becoming the Kaddish, perhaps, and
in this holy union, we remember them.
Holy, holy, holy is life and its mysterious twin, emanating from
Hashem.
Now, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish and praise our G-d for blessing
us with the sacred breath of Being.
After, we breathe deeply, slowly, experiencing memalleh, the filling of
the Void, inhaling His holy presence, fully alive!
- Mel Waldman
(2 poems added 08.28.09)
Drifter
The village elders wrap themselves in umbrella cloaks
and tease soapy yellow dominoes
they watch the blond one arrive
they listen to his strange curses
and exchange knowing glances when he stumbles
through the soggy breath of a unfamiliar morning.
They sit erect when he nears her keeper
the waxen one who greets every intelligent glance
with the limp barrel of his revolver
they salivate at the transfer of greenbacks
before noting his successful passage
into the catacombs of promised pleasure.
When a dry yellow sun chokes off
the last vestiges of the afternoon;
they are quick to observe his casual retreat
and watch him mount an earth encrusted jeep,
noting the mumbled prayers
people often make after confession.
That night they ignore their games
and sample the air with their tongues
hoping to taste his distant headlamps plodding,
seeking a passage, etching the protective heights
with fleeting, oddly twisted halos.
- J. R. Salling
(added 08.27.09)
MAKE IT SLOW
The pace quickening,
spreading meltdown
city, town, hut,
lowering tired heads under the weight,
pulling the shade down
on the vibrating window,
pretend not to see
buckling landscapes,
deliver me
into your realm,
seconds ticking,
swelling to burst,
unbutton your blouse
humming your song,
make it slow...
- Stephen Jarrell Williams
(1 poem added 08.26.09)
The Last Seat
thelastopenseatonthefinalbusboughtwithpreservedchange
isd apple dwit hcru mbs
bru
tal
ly
bru
shing
thec rumb sfro m thes eat
they
leap
and
set
tle
ba
ck
on
the
plu
sh
- Brian Edward Bahr
(added 08.25.09)
Fifteen items or less
standing in the
express checkout lane
i count the items
of the chick
in front of me
just to make sure.
and then my items,
just to be safe
and even his items,
the guy behind me
because sometimes
i'm moralistic that way
and i like to keep
track of things
like that.
and if your items exceed 15,
i will not confront you directly,
or out you publically,
just secretly glare at you and loathe you
and judge you and
project all the bad qualities
i don’t like about myself onto you:
selfish.
rude.
ignorant.
and you’ll know, yes you’ll know that i know.
i look to the magazines
to see Jon and Kate
and i’m trying not to hate –
cuz i feel you, Kate, i do
i’ve been a fucking bitch too,
except i didn’t have the world watching
and waiting with glee me
to see me fall on my face
to point while i fell from grace
i look to the aging hippie with her Birkenstocks
and khaki shorts in front of me, she's made some
very healthy choices,
i see...
organic skim milk small curd cottage cheese.
whole grain bread, the fancy kind,
i'm talking the five dollars a loaf kind.
for bread. crazy.
don’t tell me- no...
she even has granola in her cart
and now suddenly, she has become a cliché.
and then, from out of no-where
i get this crazy thought.
i didn’t ask for this thought, mind you,
sometimes thoughts just come
and i have this stunning epiphany:
this woman
has a pussy
in her pants.
it’s true! she does!
it blows my mind a little
to think of her bush-
hiding out in there, under her clothes
and i start to marvel at
the wonder of it all.
she even has a clit, just like i do,
and someone maybe gets her off,
although from the looks
of her groceries,
it’s likely she does it herself.
and i have to wonder-
is she trimmed all tidy like a porn star?
or is it hairy, and bushy
like a 70s porn star?
is it big and loose and relaxed,
hanging out like an fat old cat
on the front porch or
small and pretty, contained,
folded neatly like a shirt at the gap?
then i take this further and i look around,
taking in every woman
in the whole goddamned Kroger
and her secret vagina.
it's crazy! all of us! we're all standing around
with our vaginas safely tucked away, hidden from view.
pretending they don't exist.
but they're there.
and the idea blows my mind,
see cuz usually i go around as if
i'm the only one with a vagina,
like the rest of the world might just have
smooth plastic crotches,
like barbies.
and tonight!
i look around this room
and i am thinking
about the hidden treasures
all around me -
hairy, unruly
overgrown temples, neat, polite and friendly envelopes,
sealed with a kiss... and all the pussies in between...
yeah, that’s right... i'm picturing your pussy.
go ahead, you can picture mine.
and the penises! don't even get me started on the penises!
that’s a whole other mind trip in itself,
all of ‘em hanging around, dangling all casually,
spying on us from behind their zippers
like hidden microphones... don’t even get me started.
cuz in this moment, ladies, its aaaall
about the vajayjay
sacred sexy,
slick or sticky,
the vagina in me
honors the vagina in you.
VAGASTE.
SO! back at Kroger,
fifteen items or less,
pussies all around me, all i can do is
marvel at it all...
i start to feel
so alive, so real.
to realize we're all hiding,
we're all so covered up
all the time, yet within each of us burns a fire,
lives a soul, beats a heart pumping with hot blood,
our vaginas hidden in secret spaces,
moist and ripe with reality.
i breathe in the sweet magical
truth of it all,
all of us, standing in line, with our hearts
and our cunts and
our souls and cocks
and secrets
and treasures and tongues and tales
and groceries and all i can do
is smile and breeeeathe.
its MY turn now, and
YES I have a Kroger Plus Card and YES
i may have 17 items but three items
are the same cans of stewed tomatoes,
so i count them as one.
and YES i have a pussy
and YES plastic’s okay,
and YES i DID, indeed,
find everything I needed today and then some.
and YES I WILL have a great day...
YOU have a great day, too.
- Lisa Olson
(1 poem added 08.24.09)
At Waltham Abbey
Why when rain makes everything soft can't we find cause
for care?
We do, but later, when we've decided we won't move.
Not to the sexy Midlands, not this year.
Now I have a plan and feel the future as a track
of ochre gravel that trains time for architecture.
The slant of the roof and the tunnelled lane.
My father chattered like a tree of birds
and the stubble green paddocks sent wet fire
to our eyes.
None of us had seen such lush and pushy crops.
Now the jailbreak is an exit from petty town walls
and a hope of tranquility in the convict street.
- Jesse Shipway
(added 08.23.09)
Situation
Whatever care of citizen
Less poverty display duty
Much positive ill-founded
Those responsible for chaos
Confusion against the fact
Fraction displacement in history
Reports failed to return
Fearful promised grant
Camps are security
Food stopped until further notice.
- Sarah Ahmad
(added 08.22.09)
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
Do you feel a bit more hip? A tad more mad? How 'bout Beat? Then our job here is finished...for today!
But this whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps beginning... now... now... now! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Just point your thumb down that road and catch a ride to this swirling madness whenever you get the urge to howl. This Beat-en path to the poetic conversations going on in the Poetry Forum is always a-hoppin'!
If any of you hipsters reading this are loco locals (Dallas/Ft Worth) and dig the whole Mad Swirl of everything that keeps coming, dig this...
We're Beat-in' up the Open Mic! Mad Swirl continues doing the poetic & musical open mic voodoo that what we do do on 09:02:09. A Night of Beat-itudes will be our ode to the Beats that inspired us to be what we be. Join beat aficionado Opalina Salas and a crew of mad ones as they remind us why these Beat poets, writers & musicians still hold a place in our mad, mad hearts. After that, it's on to open mic madness as we gather together all you mad ones to do the voodoo that you do! be there or be...
Yes! Yes! YES!
Johnny O
Chief Mad Daddy-o
MH Clay
Poetry Editing Hep Cat
“Nothing is true, everything is permitted.” William S. Burroughs
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