Make your own form from your poetry!
--slogan of the moment.
Peter
and wha'ts funny is....there are people out there who would buy the kit to make the form too !
I got my kit in a box of rice krispies
in 1949 for my fifth
birthday when they
told me it was the shortest day of the year.
It had two loops on the end of the box.
If you pulled the blue one
you went through life
as a male.
I don't know what the pink one did.
But the diagram on
the back of the box
showed how to make your words large
by stuffing syllables in them from
behind.
I thought that
that was a dirty trick
or joke.
I never could find
the magic riming decoder ring.
so I have just gone on
like this to
this very day
hoping no one
would notice that
formlessness is not the same as
freedom to form a poem your own way.
"This is not a pipe."
or a poem.
Post Edited (10-31-04 01:21)
I am very sorry. I am very sorry. I am very sorry. Whatever this is that you just wrote, I like it very much. It is clever, smart, and probably served its purpose in too many ways to describe here.
be well
Marty
Oops. I think I just apologized for no reason. Marty
I think that's the best reason.
Peter
Thanks for the comments
Ceci n'est pas une thread.
Bur there are fabrics to weave
and thoughts that make themselves
when properly dressed
garments worth souls
that are both subtle and straight forward
for Drayton to Hollander and John Cage.
John Cage Is Dead
Lyrics: Robert Hunter
Music: Hart, Jenkins, Welnick, Hidalgo, Hussain
John Cage is dead
John Cage you know he's dead
He's dead, he's dead, you know he's dead
He's dead, you know he's dead
I've been sittin' here coolin' my thighs
Watching these dead dog days roll by
Shoes in the buttermilk, wolves in the bread
And I just heard John Cage is dead
I hear foghorns in the breeze
Wind alive with symphonies
Built myself a hurricane fence
'Cause I don't believe in accidents
I wonder wonder wonder wonder
Where that fellow went
The one who wrote the book of love
With a stick in wet cement
He looked like Jimi Hendrix
But he shook like Santa Claus
He didn't mind your justice
But he could not take your laws
Poking my stick in a can fulla snakes
Baby I hope that's all it takes
I been sittin' here drippin' with frost
Could be found or I could be lost
You got dreams and so do I
Your's won't live and mine won't die
Shut my mouth, clench my fist
Tape an alarm clock to my wrist
Stop the music, stop the music
Let me hear you breathe
Don't want to hear your story
I just want to read
Don't take me to Paradise
So fast I get the bends
You don't have to shut the book
Until the story ends
Technical ploy on the vertical night from
A slack jawed monkey with an appetite
Digital carry the sound so well you can
Smell the whiskey on the Dogs from Hell
Picture me down on the Parchment Farm
With a twelve foot bullwhip on my arm
Crack that whip and the jinglebell rings
Kettledrums roll and the fat lady sings
John Cage is dead
John Cage you know he's dead
He's dead, he's dead, you know he's dead
He's dead, you know he's dead
Look at all those wide eyed people
Staring at the sky
I don't care what they're looking for
Don't waste the time to try
Or fail to say what could be said
From the heart's unstifled cry
I don't believe John Cage is dead
HE'S NOT THE TYPE TO DIE