Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - Do He Extensive Labor
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - Do He Extensive Labor
Originally uploaded by jim leftwich
posted by jim leftwich at 8:03 PM
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - Do He Extensive Labor
Originally uploaded by jim leftwich
tom taylor - And so you see
And so you see, rider, there’s not much left of me under all stars claimed by what I am within these lines and doubts arrived not so much suddenly as what is not used in the claims I make for whatever follows… these are the marching lines across the time we’ve let them in and called the day our own measure from beneath the arms where the heart lies in pieces remarked by none and sung by few. The ark has loaded arms and legs for the long journey to the stars, and we clear the decks below from the cattle and the dogs relinquishing their own space into the light. The moon clings to the skies’ clamor and throng, as if a message might become its manner in the tunes we’ve sung aside and now. Below the rooms of light and dark, there are no new songs but the old ones repeated from the rescue decided from what was marked out as new and proper…. Now the acres spin, and across the line names are thrown around like food or stupor. We’d journeyed into this new air with some hope and destiny, promised by our own beliefs that some relief was sighted on the horizons of our journey, yet disappeared within the mists of actual facts which reported outside the lane of duty the open seasons for our repeat. This is the other side of the coin, neither edge nor flavor, but the rancorous postures of our cohorts clear the decks of all but the hardy in their slickers and rubber shoes eking the foreign shores their spoken sign and storage for the future’s clasp. There is no relief in sigh and palm from the outer reach. All about us gray shadows renew the air with their own vague acts from which there is no portion in retarded scope for the fallow moon to scale anew. You’d said my hours were lined with sleep, yet here in the darkness which begins the day, another sound is heard within these lines from the deeper reach. A linear spoke rims the hours one on one, sea-rider, and the clarity of honor’s realm is sealed by what follows. I shore your creek of false removal or spear these words like fish in the tank, wriggling and breathing with their own life, parted from the waves by intent and the resignation which follows deeper lines across the page into your light. My own aisles are swept clean of their reap and treasures piled by the door into the next day’s hours clear to the edge of the plane and simpler scores. Hours fall aside. No measures kept from the reports are marked ‘new’ and ‘other’ from the spare times remembered like a dune cascading in blues and greens onto the canvas from beyond. Certainly, it’s dark in this reach of climate and song, yet the promises made are still latent in the air around us, assigned by someone else into their newer realm. Some allegory persists where the clothing left by the door belongs to someone else, and deeper in the recall of what went by too soon to be approved or digested, the promises are renewed as if by hands and arms waving in the air. The moon imagines our portion and resumes its’ nightly prime and manner from other, more fortunate callers. I’d shore this fault of reluctant lines and coax them forward in the lingering tides reaching the other shore. Grains of sand enlarge my house daily into a castle for others to inhabit. It is not my claim to make nor yours to give. The creak of oars announce the crew landing in this mist of uncertain names. The further reach is marked as if the matter could be known and yet a mysterious climate charges us with knowing and time.
.
I fresh my pardons clean to the end of rhyme. The lowering sound of mutant animals makes another song declare that this is the other language calling out for speech and image in the rough days approaching like a hurricane across the seas we knew as calm. Approach and be recognized, the sentry calls, but we do not listen and charge ahead from one side to the other in regard, in tense and outer, in newer times the day is flown again.
.
I fresh my pardons clean to the end of rhyme. The lowering sound of mutant animals makes another song declare that this is the other language calling out for speech and image in the rough days approaching like a hurricane across the seas we knew as calm. Approach and be recognized, the sentry calls, but we do not listen and charge ahead from one side to the other in regard, in tense and outer, in newer times the day is flown again.
posted by jim leftwich at 8:39 AM
tom taylor - MORE
More, specific destinations are set out as parts of the larger journey from absence to a warming of the heart to its details at the closer reach; translucent surfaces sustain the weight of four automobiles on the reflection which, while resembling a watery distance, is less and more at the same time. A shimmering plane enhances a surficial lack of depth which itself has no dimension other than a solidity and an absence at the same time, less by far than the objects it supports. It is not a sheet exactly but a force or an impetus to be seen as something dividing what is above from an emptiness beneath its actual dimensionless energy. So much for the separation of the seen from the seeing which engages the perception which seems to allow an evanescence to be revealed in seeming contradiction of a frail yet determined shimmering of light itself rather than any emanation or restriction which might contradict density or existence itself. Beyond this allowance for solidity there is little else to recommend it to one’s partial yet unexplained perception, confusing what is real with what is not. This is the allowable distance. This is the heart monitoring your own sensations from a mark on the screen of your own making into some newer recollection inside the definitions which are provided in the essence of what has been previously ignored or denied if only from your particular stance in the dance of light and shadow which becomes the focus of your own messages from an unknown who might or might not reply again.
.
this hopeless silence. "things are not as they appear; nor are they otherwise" you found me in my hopeless silence seated in the same chair as the centuries, most distant, most silent and therefore most vulnerable, most available. You came to me in this silence and joined me without speech or song or gesture but with your own perfect isolation and silence, and there, we communicated our perfect thoughts without moving or sending but only open in receipt to the wave lengths of thought itself carrying all sensation all emotion all distances united in the silent dance together in the sunlight moonlight nonlight of what passed between us long ago and now again the lines across the day were open and closed like a distant star coming into bloom in a haven of retreat and safety where nothing passed for nothing and something emerged into the space between us which glimmered and passed into our unity as if something generous and filled with sense and song observed our passage and our destiny as if something had come home from the wars and the trails and the distances into the room of hopeless silence and made it into something new and real beyond the treasures left on the floor beside the bowl and the tomb and the rock and the hour and the sign itself….
.
time zones have melted away by virtue of their definitions and absences on the face of the clock beating history’s destiny and song apart from all continents and definitions. Your hours have become the moment on my screen coursing back and forth across the day, sentences willing to march have reported for orders and set off for the front of your brain without plan or locale. The seeming signs have been turned off and there is only a realm of color washing through the vision of our dimensionless perceptions, here where the allowable presence becomes a second on the face of light…. The music on the radio recalls the passages and eloquent denials we’ve sent around the world over and over, marking our turn and gleam like a manual on the carseat for how to drive along the waving hands in the air, motionless and profound, all contradictions are resolved in the hour of our forward careening space and time bound into a unity and a forgiveness.
.
this hopeless silence. "things are not as they appear; nor are they otherwise" you found me in my hopeless silence seated in the same chair as the centuries, most distant, most silent and therefore most vulnerable, most available. You came to me in this silence and joined me without speech or song or gesture but with your own perfect isolation and silence, and there, we communicated our perfect thoughts without moving or sending but only open in receipt to the wave lengths of thought itself carrying all sensation all emotion all distances united in the silent dance together in the sunlight moonlight nonlight of what passed between us long ago and now again the lines across the day were open and closed like a distant star coming into bloom in a haven of retreat and safety where nothing passed for nothing and something emerged into the space between us which glimmered and passed into our unity as if something generous and filled with sense and song observed our passage and our destiny as if something had come home from the wars and the trails and the distances into the room of hopeless silence and made it into something new and real beyond the treasures left on the floor beside the bowl and the tomb and the rock and the hour and the sign itself….
.
time zones have melted away by virtue of their definitions and absences on the face of the clock beating history’s destiny and song apart from all continents and definitions. Your hours have become the moment on my screen coursing back and forth across the day, sentences willing to march have reported for orders and set off for the front of your brain without plan or locale. The seeming signs have been turned off and there is only a realm of color washing through the vision of our dimensionless perceptions, here where the allowable presence becomes a second on the face of light…. The music on the radio recalls the passages and eloquent denials we’ve sent around the world over and over, marking our turn and gleam like a manual on the carseat for how to drive along the waving hands in the air, motionless and profound, all contradictions are resolved in the hour of our forward careening space and time bound into a unity and a forgiveness.
posted by jim leftwich at 8:38 AM
tom taylor - TODAY
Today, leaves falling through time, even through gravity itself, another force to be reckoned with or against, against time the leaves will not fall but rise into their new estate inside time itself reckoned or beckoned. The contradictions themselves cancel out and make a space on the table for a newer guest at the feast of the centuries, food prepared with some grace for the times that follow on the heels of what preceded…. Flora Sauna ruled the day, the land sinking to the right in its fall from space into time’s successions and failures. These are the terminal lights ringing in the town square from time removed but lessoned from what proceeds from the purse into the saner of those who remain tied to their posts. It’s all a matter of favor, not allegiance or any lesser form of loyalty… it’s a matter of what you think you’re owed in the residues of the unknown which clog your brainstem with eons of flight and fancy. You came to me in the silence of my calling out. It was another significant event in the face of whatever we inhabited from the earlier classes we met together and then captured a second or two from the scheduled tasks we reasoned outside the lines and made abstract lesions on the sands of thyme and rosemary.
.
The lady in the dunes walks across the beach strewn as it is with the detritus of life, bones, beads, bodies, all bode to the signs that lie there in the sun bleaching them of their color and their residues of flesh and energy. The dogs chew unspeakable things as if they were food and perhaps they are, left from their definitions into a newer form of use, like the rest of us, filing into the room without question or answer but driven only by the blind obedience of the sheep and the lemming rushing toward the cliff in an energy of completion, driven toward the buffalo jump by the Indians on their horses running alongside the monster animals collecting in a heap at the bottom, a killing ground for humanity’s lessons on the floor of the cave, on the wall of the cavern smeared paint in the form of words and songs driven from their pit and sum. “Not so bad” you think to your self who does not answer but leaves you alone along the trail and one hand waving free….
.
You came in the wilderness and darkness at the end of gravity’s fall with leaves intended words and signs were crept along the flailing line at the end of the screen. You came again to say hello and let me in on the big secret. We came to dance on the lines across the floor which call the path another room of unintended masks and pleasures. The ropes have been cut, the tree is falling, the wind is blowing through the air around your years marking the day as if by paint and stone. Into the towers we’re blinded by the tightness around the scars of life’s impediments, lonelier hours have come between the other minutes we marked silence as a mere intrusion on our running commentary on the light around the corner. Here is the moment we await in our silence, the presence of the sign and the hour, a lighted space which claims our inner form from where it hides in the dark of unremitted days and nights…. Tennis matched the voices on the screen with intentions and reputations on the line between in and out. He smiled along the side of the table, she kept the hours from repeating. You sighed against me like a melon or a flask. These hours were marked by the hand that gave them sign and tempo, alert and fortunate in the pacific of their anabasis to be the moon and throng of any future at all, something more and more uncertain in this failure of the moment, anguished by the silence of the sheep in their pens awaiting the clipper and the knife itself, an allowance for night’s particular silence on the floor of doubt relined by the folks at home in their wallows of repeat.
.
The lady in the dunes walks across the beach strewn as it is with the detritus of life, bones, beads, bodies, all bode to the signs that lie there in the sun bleaching them of their color and their residues of flesh and energy. The dogs chew unspeakable things as if they were food and perhaps they are, left from their definitions into a newer form of use, like the rest of us, filing into the room without question or answer but driven only by the blind obedience of the sheep and the lemming rushing toward the cliff in an energy of completion, driven toward the buffalo jump by the Indians on their horses running alongside the monster animals collecting in a heap at the bottom, a killing ground for humanity’s lessons on the floor of the cave, on the wall of the cavern smeared paint in the form of words and songs driven from their pit and sum. “Not so bad” you think to your self who does not answer but leaves you alone along the trail and one hand waving free….
.
You came in the wilderness and darkness at the end of gravity’s fall with leaves intended words and signs were crept along the flailing line at the end of the screen. You came again to say hello and let me in on the big secret. We came to dance on the lines across the floor which call the path another room of unintended masks and pleasures. The ropes have been cut, the tree is falling, the wind is blowing through the air around your years marking the day as if by paint and stone. Into the towers we’re blinded by the tightness around the scars of life’s impediments, lonelier hours have come between the other minutes we marked silence as a mere intrusion on our running commentary on the light around the corner. Here is the moment we await in our silence, the presence of the sign and the hour, a lighted space which claims our inner form from where it hides in the dark of unremitted days and nights…. Tennis matched the voices on the screen with intentions and reputations on the line between in and out. He smiled along the side of the table, she kept the hours from repeating. You sighed against me like a melon or a flask. These hours were marked by the hand that gave them sign and tempo, alert and fortunate in the pacific of their anabasis to be the moon and throng of any future at all, something more and more uncertain in this failure of the moment, anguished by the silence of the sheep in their pens awaiting the clipper and the knife itself, an allowance for night’s particular silence on the floor of doubt relined by the folks at home in their wallows of repeat.
posted by jim leftwich at 8:37 AM
tom taylor - IT
It’s this, another run-of-the-mill abnormal experience, change at the top line, through electrical energy on paths accepted for the run itself. The light changes into day’s opening gray air around the sky, and the elliptical form of the thoughts themselves are indicators that the path is sure and the flow certain in its run along the edges of night. Emotions are seen as well in their uncertain glow of certainty and the illusory nature of their facts borne along in the tidal flats beneath your feet. You reached through sand to rearrange the floating organs inside, my surface tension notwithstanding. Hallow to the scene, sun’s day emergent beyond the ridge to my left, surf slowly rolling up the sand into small pools around the scene. The doors are left open again to enter the air from the inside out and not the other way around, though what is known may not be actual or even suspected by the times at hand. Yes, at hand in the movies of the sky as they protect and nourish the scenery from underneath or from inside. It is still noon somewhere on other planets which revolve around our own. You’d expected my assent no less often than before, or traveled too far to remind the venue of its wilderness, here in the non.
.
Later stories remind you of the truth, the you of me… the cities becoming ruins in the sun from some disordered plan not revealed but allowed to spread apart from all that had preceded them in the organization of he centuries along less partisan lines. Here comes the doubt itself in a red car with sirens wailing and lights flashing in the sunrise morning of white and yellow light spreading across the landscape. The ache of being stills you in my heart’s unwinding parameters of emergencies and their particular intensity without definitions or reminders to the opposite side of the freshly-painted rooms we’d moved into only yesterday. A surprise, you might say, from the other side of the coin, all measure and prime-time markers left out or piled by the door. I forget which one turned you around on the pathways of life which might have been spelled out or told what to do. I’ve been tried and feathered from the painted surface on which we lay side by side. Neither hostile nor unflattering, the positions taken were no surprise but actual and persistent in their uniqueness. Insofar as. But what released the energies from their parts and sentences drove along the edge and then turned inland to unload their ‘message’ on the sides of the issue itself, another rim and flattery, another seasoned portion in control.
.
Here we pull apart the idea from its seasoning, making a strict allowance impossible, or at least problematical in some disuse or sentient passion. Here the hours melt into their constituent claims for attention or for some other heroic proportions made reverent by some destiny to include you in the discussion after all, only questioning your own relief. The ark is closed now, the new owner dissatisfied with what she saw. Her money on the shelf awaiting deposit and return, deposits liquefied by ancient doorways seething in the wind like love’s anchor on the heart. You said to wait here and so I did, expecting your arrival any day now is not the same as an exception to the rule, a floater on the dusk. And here is the new door opening slowly into the lighted space beyond delays and appraisals notwithstanding nor otherwise unintended consequences left aside. Somehow, all this evades your memorials to your own passion left behind in the dark like unpleasant memories which were left unrecorded more or less abandoned in disuse. An eloquent silence which says little more than ‘hello’ and then leaves town for another escape mechanism from which there is nothing left or sung like popular scenery from the regions of discussion and touching behind the ears of the donkey riding you uphill.
.
Later stories remind you of the truth, the you of me… the cities becoming ruins in the sun from some disordered plan not revealed but allowed to spread apart from all that had preceded them in the organization of he centuries along less partisan lines. Here comes the doubt itself in a red car with sirens wailing and lights flashing in the sunrise morning of white and yellow light spreading across the landscape. The ache of being stills you in my heart’s unwinding parameters of emergencies and their particular intensity without definitions or reminders to the opposite side of the freshly-painted rooms we’d moved into only yesterday. A surprise, you might say, from the other side of the coin, all measure and prime-time markers left out or piled by the door. I forget which one turned you around on the pathways of life which might have been spelled out or told what to do. I’ve been tried and feathered from the painted surface on which we lay side by side. Neither hostile nor unflattering, the positions taken were no surprise but actual and persistent in their uniqueness. Insofar as. But what released the energies from their parts and sentences drove along the edge and then turned inland to unload their ‘message’ on the sides of the issue itself, another rim and flattery, another seasoned portion in control.
.
Here we pull apart the idea from its seasoning, making a strict allowance impossible, or at least problematical in some disuse or sentient passion. Here the hours melt into their constituent claims for attention or for some other heroic proportions made reverent by some destiny to include you in the discussion after all, only questioning your own relief. The ark is closed now, the new owner dissatisfied with what she saw. Her money on the shelf awaiting deposit and return, deposits liquefied by ancient doorways seething in the wind like love’s anchor on the heart. You said to wait here and so I did, expecting your arrival any day now is not the same as an exception to the rule, a floater on the dusk. And here is the new door opening slowly into the lighted space beyond delays and appraisals notwithstanding nor otherwise unintended consequences left aside. Somehow, all this evades your memorials to your own passion left behind in the dark like unpleasant memories which were left unrecorded more or less abandoned in disuse. An eloquent silence which says little more than ‘hello’ and then leaves town for another escape mechanism from which there is nothing left or sung like popular scenery from the regions of discussion and touching behind the ears of the donkey riding you uphill.
posted by jim leftwich at 8:35 AM
Friday, September 07, 2007
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - Prom Lube play
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - Prom Lube play
Originally uploaded by jim leftwich
posted by jim leftwich at 10:15 PM
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - A Little Night Music
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - A Little Night Music
Originally uploaded by jim leftwich
posted by jim leftwich at 10:15 PM
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - blip blap bird
Sheila Murphy, John M. Bennett & C. Mehrl Bennett - blip blap bird
Originally uploaded by jim leftwich
posted by jim leftwich at 10:14 PM
Thursday, September 06, 2007
jim leftwich - from CATASTROPHE
DESIRE
t as e been rue a
ropa achieves ts ur
eopl allow hems
f est and eath
n he a the ile f
nd eo willingly onti
he la will onti
e efu to earn
ave o before nd e e
ecog the anct
rrep individual e ema
nima moved lmos
esir for even
09.05.07
OCCUPATION
t s ra beyond easu
hris it ecam
raq i continue naba
roba considerably onge
emoc congress ave l
ubli outcry ompe
ake i upon hems
estr of n nti
oint out n isc
oint that e ust
raq o no hrea
itiz knew hat i
raq n our eade
nfor event hat o
ind a this navo
uali that ur ea
or nv and ccup
ere t means hat o
ct f g and oth h
onti occupation epre
09.05.07
POLICY
his s fact f he r
reci fact hat u
re et to blit
eter to even
one n what e ont
atio discussion e urd
nnoc people ho ev
hat e liberated atio
nque pure nd ha
oo de this s ath
sych murderer nd t s
ur or policy or he
09.05.07
CATASTROPHE
et s e absolutely lear
s ne m and ully
epub the atas
atio and urde
nnoc people nd t a
ount and he or
ecad to ome b
nvas and ccup
erri idea akin
s eft unchallenged nd nc
atas of he am
hose catastrophes ay e v
hem i the npro
eapo of ny in
09.05.07
t as e been rue a
ropa achieves ts ur
eopl allow hems
f est and eath
n he a the ile f
nd eo willingly onti
he la will onti
e efu to earn
ave o before nd e e
ecog the anct
rrep individual e ema
nima moved lmos
esir for even
09.05.07
OCCUPATION
t s ra beyond easu
hris it ecam
raq i continue naba
roba considerably onge
emoc congress ave l
ubli outcry ompe
ake i upon hems
estr of n nti
oint out n isc
oint that e ust
raq o no hrea
itiz knew hat i
raq n our eade
nfor event hat o
ind a this navo
uali that ur ea
or nv and ccup
ere t means hat o
ct f g and oth h
onti occupation epre
09.05.07
POLICY
his s fact f he r
reci fact hat u
re et to blit
eter to even
one n what e ont
atio discussion e urd
nnoc people ho ev
hat e liberated atio
nque pure nd ha
oo de this s ath
sych murderer nd t s
ur or policy or he
09.05.07
CATASTROPHE
et s e absolutely lear
s ne m and ully
epub the atas
atio and urde
nnoc people nd t a
ount and he or
ecad to ome b
nvas and ccup
erri idea akin
s eft unchallenged nd nc
atas of he am
hose catastrophes ay e v
hem i the npro
eapo of ny in
09.05.07
posted by jim leftwich at 8:44 PM
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- 12/12/21 - 12/19/21
- 12/19/21 - 12/26/21
- 12/26/21 - 1/2/22
- 1/2/22 - 1/9/22
- 1/9/22 - 1/16/22
- 1/16/22 - 1/23/22
- 1/23/22 - 1/30/22
- 8/7/22 - 8/14/22
- 2/5/23 - 2/12/23
- 6/25/23 - 7/2/23
- 8/6/23 - 8/13/23
- 11/12/23 - 11/19/23
- 12/3/23 - 12/10/23
- 1/21/24 - 1/28/24
- 2/4/24 - 2/11/24
- 4/28/24 - 5/5/24
- 5/5/24 - 5/12/24
- 7/14/24 - 7/21/24
- 7/21/24 - 7/28/24
- 8/25/24 - 9/1/24
- 10/6/24 - 10/13/24
