Monthly Archives: November 2009

St Augustine wrote an old book
Confessions of a Saint
(He’s the pious sort)
And the Spanish thought
He would make a good name
For their first fortess
On the New World’s Bulge

So here I am in Saint A-Gustin’ Florida
Evrybody’s gettin psychic, right?
Or is it just this Crowd?
Dreams About Evrything
And the next day,
“Hey, those are the stairs in my dream”
(Stairs into the Ocean)
“I heard your voice 2000 miles away”
And so Forth

Jumpd off the Mountain Goats’ Bus
I got in at 6 AM and watchd the dawn
On the broken seashell sand
And ran circles + spirals
In my floppy boots
(Busted Sole)
And a little kid ran a star shape,
Unwittingly drawing a Pentagram
20 feet tall in Florida

The Philosopher and The Painter
Hosted our American Tksgvng here
Vegan gorge
Owen Pallett cut my hair
And Larkin Grimm handed a harp
On the 25th, one month out
Amadeus read the Runes
And I saw where I’m at

Now I type confusion
On a phone in bed
And you all wonder what I mean
Just the headlines, folks
You gotta…
Imagine the Articles!

And fate, absolutely.
If YOU is the outcome
Of all the chosen doors,
And unchosen,
Leading up to you now,
Fate is the next doors
Destiny is the ultimate room,
Destination

Larkin read my tarot
Above the stage las nite
it don’t tell what happens
But what I can choose
Where I’ve been and Am
And what doors I’m at
And hints of where each of em lead
And the final outcome of the cards
Was the choice between
Works and Failure
I’m serious, those were the cards!
Acting on fate or waiting on it

I don’t believe in Fate like that
Destiny as somthing that Happens
Life happens not
Life is DONE,
Consequential wom and men
Are not accidental
Genghis Khan was not sitting
Home on a sunday
Waking up monday revered,
His destiny didn’t fall on him
His SITUATION yes
His family dead or whatever,
His choices few but still
His Choices
His fate is what he chose
And those who let the fates befall
Are often those we hear bemoan
“Why such a fate?”

Great fates aint given
Waiting late for he who aint driven
Falling fates are often fails
No born destinies
Only born chances
Alexander may not’ve been great
If not born of kings
Thousands are born of kings
Thousands could be Alexander
And only he did.

And let’s not forget
That’s to say, Remember
The beauty of Chance
That’s to say, Nature
The lady door-maker
Without whom there’d be no choice
But let’s not mistake
The carpenter for the room
The builder for the building
The walls for the walking

So to answer your question Elise,
Your gentle mental prodding,
And thanks for make me thinking,
I guess I think not
“Do we have a hand in it?”
But
“WILL we have a hand in it?”
Will, would, want
For some Do,
And some Don’t
And only those who PUT hands in
Find anything to hold
And those who Don’t
Wonder why they’re empty-handed

————

Ps, I’m reminded of princess mononoke, wink!:
“Prince Ashitaka, You cannot alter your fate,
However you can rise to meet it if you choose.”

“A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man.” – Cromulent

I must warn anyone who takes me into their home: imagine you had a small, unassuming guest in one of your rooms, but in the nite he becomes a giant, and the sun wakes in the morning to shine on his feet sticking out the doors, his arms thru the second floor windows, and his head thru the chimney, while he rolls a cigaret from your thatched-hay roof.
That’s what I’m like in yer kitchen.
I am a lucky golden food dragon, here to eat all your non-animal leftovers, your cereals and condiments, your oats and beans, juices and teas, I drink a pint of soup like a glass of lemonade and I eat half a peach orchard before I’m even aware of it.
I bestow jade charms on my host, but if his cupboard be bare, I may wind up chowing the cupboard itself.
Beware and rejoice! The hungry dragon moves west!

if green is the age of the tap water flow, why of all the colors does green mean go?

if river is dead and silver is slow, what does it mean that green men throw their bodies at the gaudy-dressed partygoin hoes, who say “uh i dunno, why’s green mean go?”

green, gren period periods the //// green period puncuates the sentient sentence! god, aren’t you just sentenced to death? all sentenced up. pretentious and sensuous, sentenced to sentience. relentlessly i paint fling paint at fling farmers whose walls were well whitewashed when we walked with wizardly warblers, winning wars BUT not gooses.

this is the kinda garbage you gotta put up with when listning to “artisis” “artists” talk about “arts”, whose blood is purely red with no green that ever poked its antenna in a vein. in that vein. in vain. just painful, ain it? so what we wanna worship now, turn to channel 54 in your textbooks. trees are fallin cuz they pansies. can’t handle a chainsaw they say. survival of the fittest they say. no evolution they say. make up your mind.