·:[ Stephen Vincent ]:·
• • • • •

Yugoslavia is not up nor
An arrangement called saucers
A quarrel clicks the rifle
Butts stacatto thrust
Fricatif binaries illume:
Orange mandarins - mid March -
Still so sweet, brandy marries
the lemon not singular among lemons
Nor translation among penquins:
What is vacant doubts solitude
Negative space an Inquisition Doc
Jew and Muslims once occupied Rome
Imperial scholars, doctors
Who joins the syntax joins God:
The dinosaur now a bird without feather
What goes rare? Tongue touch
Flesh on the spring - Bosque - pear.

A little break here from the Tenderly Series or The Gertrude Improvs for Another kind of Experiment. That is, Do Titles Without Their Drawings Do a Portrait Make?

Titles of Self-Portraits in My Journal
November 7, 2005 - March 15, 2006

To Be Serene
Go Serene
There are Some Mysteries
One never knows
What Prevails?
What loves?
What illuminates?
Between Thoughts
I throw down a Lot
Simplicty pursues itself
What
We do not Share
Be wet
With a Small Kindness:
Rosemary, lavender lit petals
Be wet in a small madness -
Cherry the Tree
Love yet another
You can’t Always Get
What you Believe
Reflection on the Sorrow of Mountains
The curious ways in which
We spirit our natures
Got Cold: Got Fire
So much for Willing Things in the World
The Eyes of Judgement
Are too Much with Me
Loving in Particular
A New Year
Comes in Darkness and Rain
Cluttered with Possibilities
We Trouble to be Born.
Anxiety and Grief do not Betoken
A Fallen Man
When not Crying
Sometimes a Clarity
The Anxious Upon Us
An Anxiety To Be Born Again
Go Down To Moses
No Question
One Must Progress
The Country The Land of Many Tears
One Keeps the Eye Vigorous, One Does
Some Friends Have Friends That Are Too Fraught
The Anxiety To Be Born
The Way Anxiety Precedes Erection
Art Rises
Falls What
Slips Away Slips Away
Arisen Awake to the Light
To Get the Full Wave Back On
He Who Did Not Sleep Well
We lie down with the dark Wolf in the Pasture
What One Knows Knows You
One Does Become Aware One’s Mother is Dying
To Know the Pain of Old Mothers Weeping
To Sometimes Break from Knowledge
Speed Crowds the Body
Does Not Impair the Vision
Can We Withstand Our Spiritual Objections
We Weep Through Winter We Do We Do
Go Native With Your Stroke
When the “rayons’ embrace.
Stay with the Wolf
Stay upwind from the Wolf
Then turn Then turn
Dance with the Wolf
Certainly Dance
Cry Father Is Dead
Let the Lightening
Strike the Body
Sometimes the Eye is Fried
By its own expectations
In memory of my brother, Chris
Now dead two years
Sail away
Into Deep Freedom
Let Vigor not be my strife
In the Rain
No end of Droppings
Love loves its Mass
Love keeps a Steady Eye, She Does
Ruffled By Brothers
One Enters the Commune of Others
My Father was a Maker of boats
The woode boat with white sails
I lost my father, recently
Self portrait in wind
We keep our portraits quick
When there is constant truck exhaust
In the neighborhood
Good-bye Sweet Journal
One wrings out the Abuses
Of the Young and the Old
One still Laments
Where when there was love there.

When I get my scanner and camera I will photograph some of the titles and their pictures.

I am not a pet oyster
Nor are you. Measurement
By definition is lonely: the snail
Wet as red licorice stands taller than green:
Passion is a side door peril
An elephant walks backward
Surrealism is silly
The fat calf split open
rib red to an eye:
Passion is peril, oysters are blue
The hazard is not green against red
The cement block, a wild investigation:
Porous anything, porous a new way
To look in, to look out, measure
Is mince meat, solid the red flower
The hummingbird edged, edges in blue.

What delight? What mathematics?
What is solid? The engine throttle. An exhaust
Without a ladder climbs north. Coal
The color whose true love a blue shade
Nocturnal lips, a sumptuousness guides
Whose breasts cleave north to south:

To abide small boundaries, the mathematics
Yield no result, containment an illusion:
One can, at least, thank you, turn off
An interior throttle, actually a huge buzz
Without a shade of division, an ocular
Optics, there is no crowding up or down
A melodrama goes baked to disappear:

The collusion with vanity is another’s chore
One witnesses birds, vagrant spring whistles
A loop in the heart loops loopity-lou
To chain one’s heart to a blossom, a mistake
Though one loves the young face, yes
One’s on alert: the mistakes, errors
Lust one wants it, yes, passion, one does.

Copper, not the wind, her hair not
The scent of jasper, jasper the scent
My true love or there a penny on the heart
A wayward, the entropy, the marriage the
Now nor not, or once, now, once again:
The copper carriage an addle, a cradle
A ripple, then one, then two rivulets
Down concrete, transparent and liquid
Mud is the color, true love goes fertile
True love goes down, a tisket, a tasket
Dos y dos the disingenous marriage
We love you, yes we love you, the sky
Does not turn twenty, my horn sperm filled
The bucket plenty, yes, loves a riot:
A fertile riot fills the storm, hail from the chief
New birth, new birth, love loves no grief
To swell, yes to swell, to call it, well, belief.

Not taught to secure tears
Not taught to secure tears in Church
Not taught informed a narrow bridge
Secures caution. A narrow is not torture
Nor is broad nor is inbetween. An airplane
Engine is not distortion nor digestion. A bird
In itself is not lament nor is lamentable
A dead bird is not avian nor is flu
Nor is “want to be” a verb worth sustained:
An attention deliberate, an attention gained.

To water the garden in rain is not the red
The red tongue in flame on the yellow, the parrrot tulip:
One wishes a hand then two then rises four to two
Good morning it is not necessary the cloud cover
Broken. One opens, one closes. two by two
One marries or does not, the children emergent:
Avian the crow caw the mocking bird
One sits, one does not, one whistles the cordial
Intimate cool the cleanse one, then two, the many
White at first translucent rain drops
It does, does not, o yes, the sun now driven
A pen, the plume, the hard disc gives one memory
Gives one, gives one never not, o yes, never not.

*

Tend her, bend her

Buttons off to the side:

It is the naked gesture

That initiates each - call it -

New World.

*

Bird Let

A light within the sun
Pecking it on Monday
What is sensible?
A choice inflamed
The torch is not a sacrifice
What leads is green
The jade gone to lemon
The hummingbird’s back:
To feed the young, go absent
Pollen is the liquor, my true love
Goes pleasing, careless
There is no elephant in the room
My true love breaks through clouds
The dark is long, but yet
Sweet charmed one, the delicacy
The hummingbird’s long beaked stab
To feed the risen, thin, open dark beaks:
The wonder of it (each his, her, this) yes
Call it (chip, chip) yes, I do, song.

A Bloody Mary is not a sound a sister
Kissed her. The sound is not a ridge
A ridge is corny or let’s not go there
Her blond lips bought an oval lavender
undermount the, the three hole the
Granite sink provides an ample
The surface across no one breathes:
Steam saturates the white glass
In an exchange singular, non-religious
We listen to it, then not, the serenity
An administrative non-decision:
Thunder rolls through her thin breast bone
Quivers: I have not seen the hat but
No one reports in singular, yes, multiples:
The throat - it starts there - the shakes:

*

Poverty strangles her an olive green vest
Trembling one aspires to that, fire
Slow down her, well, we can go there
Too, yet the point remains the jade
Now canary-feather back humming among
Crotches her nest the thin black beak
Stabs its moisture down their young throats:
The neck feathers (ruffled, white) quiver.

I am indulging Lent as my reason for quiet on the blog. No doubt - I imagine, anyway - there will eventually be a famous forthcoming novel to be called, Quiet Flows the Blog.
It does, however, seem a good time for quiet, my quiet.
Got to finish a big major book project. And the focus is there.
Oh,
Alison Croggan, publisher (among other hats), has let me know that Masthead 10 is about to emerge, possibly this Friday. I will announce here, as well. There will be a number of my “Ghost Walks” - the pieces I was doing last fall with pictures and text.
Oh, and I am getting (soon) a new camera. So visuals will return.
Be Well. All