Round Four: Coming Back

Well hello there hoodlums and harletts,

Based on my last post it would appear that things have been getting a bit out of hand on the whole poetics/ rhyming wordplay/ babbling incoherently front, so I figured its time to bring it back down again (like anything visceral, language must also travel in waves) and give a kind of heads up, a brief tutorial, if you will, on what to do with this wild and ah Ca-raizee guy whos words you have somehow stumbled upon in this vast and digital ocean of word soup (and who you hopefully intend to continue reading).

While I love a good mindfuck, I am equally eager to seek out some kind of understanding, a bit of coherence with my coffee, and perhaps even a spoonful of "meaning" in both what I read and what I write.

For example, I lovah di jazz. It straddles the line of sanity, occasionally spilling out over the top, losing itself in the sheer joy of the sounds it creates. It is a generous genious idiot child learning speech. Jazz is what happens when the instruments learn to speak for themselves, or rather, when the musicians enable the instruments to speak through them, in turn being enable themselves by the instruments they hold. But first they must establish the "head," create the melody, the time signatures, there needs to be an understanding, some kind of recognizable bone structure on which to build the muscles of the face. Before a trip can be had, one must build the house. Otherwise it is simply wandering. Which of course can lead to its own kind of enchantment.

And yet, this is what I fear I have neglected to do so far in the creation of Skyhookery. At times it seems that the face I have presented to you all (who may be no more than one or two people) is built on a foundation of jello, words for the sake of words, riddles without answers, or worse, in which the riddle is the answer itself. But in this post I wish to paint a bit of a face for you, give you all an idea of who the little bald man behind the curtain is (though I am neither little nor am I bald, I am most certainly the man behind the curtain in this carnival of words.)

If you couldn't tell from previous posts, or from this long winded introduction, once I sit down at the computer and start typing I tend to continue until the rain has stopped and the floodgates return to their original locked and upright positions. While this is good for filling up space, at times it creates problems with readability. But the irony is that my girlfriend still thinks I'm the quiet, serious type. For those of you who know me, you can make your own desicions. Japan has changed me a bit, but not that much. I still have my days where I talk nonstop and howl at the moon. But a lot of time spent on my own in the teachers room has definitely led me to be more comfortable with my own silence (which is different than say, your own silence.)

Recently I have been re-considering about my decision to study poetry as a Graduate student (well that was a bit of a leap for such a fast moving train- hope none of you fell of in he process.) Not because I have decided to shelve my love of language (and in fact for quite the oposite reason.) Recently I have been considering becoming a (cunning) linguist as well as a slanger of words.

More on this later. For now, i gotta run. The clock bell just rang letting me know that its time to go. Fucking rat that I am, forever loyal to the bell that controls my cheese.

Round Three: The snake in the grass

And so it goes my friends, and so it goes; the constant filling and ghastly growing, mildew milling, mirthy mowing. But then of course, there is the knowing, the silly stilling and stealy stowing, seepy seething, the searing showing. The lowly bowling, burly bowing, coldly creeping, and holy howling; then the slowing, the slowering, glowering roses, those thousand buds of time riding upon the lovely, lordly (lordy look who's forty) portly bugs of rhyme.


Transvestite vestibules gestate (in jest, just ate) with the best of fools, arrest the resting, for the rest are tools, and tools, my friends, are restless.


So why not the smart? It smarts indeed (of which a need in friends kneads friendly knees). And then what of knees? Above ground bulbs of leg, limby turnips, sons of a thousand bony stalks of movement. A whole village of knees! A nation built upon the knobbled stilts! A giraffe, their king, who can be followed anywhere.


Desist dismissal of the art of ease, cease to please, I artly plead! Fall apart the seed of need (parting knees); the pardoned pout of putting out, the pleading, peeling, pushing shout, and in the end, the pearly port is pouring out, the parting after plowing, parting such (and such, sweet sweet sorrow, parting). If not today, again tomorrow

We all know how the story ends... among friends, and in the telling, rather... telling.