“beautiful day isn’t it?” she asks
middle aged, under-dressed for the sudden snow that engulfed the scene
she smiled when she saw me-
probably the hat-

and i stopped, figuratively at least, dead in my tracks

it was beautiful
slightly hungover on my way to class
i’d already begun to appreciate
the way the freshly heavy snow
crunched under my boots
decorated the vistas quite familiar
cast them fresh

once, some time ago, i woke twice from a very vivid dream
to find that i could no longer tell what was dream
and what was real

the thought has haunted me ever since
that i died in my sleep that night
and the reality in which i now find myself
is a constuct i created to keep my soul sane

if there is such a thing as sanity
i’m never sure

ok… whiz bang post right here…
an honest,
very few holds-barred attempt
to wring out an understanding of
my basic essence…
and ultimately i’m just trying to stop the post teaser from giving away too much… so finally
i’ll also say
that there’s a wild nugget from
rock’n'roll history to listen to as well… so give a click… take a second out of your busy day and see if there is something here worth reading… finite jester

Well first off, here’s hoping y’all know what a pipe-dream is.

(the jester laughs in all the shadings of intentional/unintentional irony)

Should you not… check out the Wikipedia entry, and consider adding to it.

At any rate, In Praise of the Pipe-Dream. The impossible, totally irrational vista of whatever it is that you and your pipe are dreaming about in that fleeting moment it takes to construct a whole elaborate fantasy. I recently had a pipe dream which led me to believe that this post might be worth reading.

With a personal logic that perhaps only I will ever understand, I’m posting this in uneasy conjunction with the post on ‘Pain’ that I just made. This is a poem from that period where the ideologies presented in ‘Pain’ where just beginning to become truly grokked by the jester here.

I’ve always wanted to go back to this particular piece and give it the kind of good, poetic scrubbing it needs to work properly for me, but instead, I’ll just call it good. With a wink of the eye, I present…

today was not the day for poetry
nor was the day before
i did nor thought of anything profound
enough to put to paper
i suffered no tragedy
i reached no state of nirvana

i woke up with a headache
and a slightly upset stomach
put my head down
and plodded through my day
in a grey sort of fog

i spoke in the simple sentences
which my mind was capable of forming

i did not dance

i need to ask you a favor
there is something that you all have to do
and i bet you haven’t done it recently

get in your car and go for a long drive
point your vehicle
in a direction away from all the cities
you should leave at dusk

keep driving until you can no longer see
the yellow glow caused by the streetlights

keep driving until there are no houses
go until you find yourself in the middle of everywhere

A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media
00:21:11 GK intros Billy Collins
00:23:00 Billy Collins reads ‘The Trouble With Poetry’
00:25:20 Billy Collins reads ‘The Lanyard’
00:28:04 Billy Collins reads ‘Flock’

Billy Collins starts reading at about 9:30 into Segment two if you click on that… he’s our current poet laureate, and listening to this… yeah, he deserves to be. Delicious, nutritious and hilarious. The last poem he reads is short, sweet and spot on. Lewd Cognoscenti rating is off the chart.

i try to be an introspective soul
most every impression i have had of the world
has been put to further thought
i always try to reevaluate that which i have learned

i have found that it is a humbling experience
to pull a piece of poetry or prose
from a dust covered folder
where you put it years ago

In certain company i am embarrassed to admit it
but i am a smoker
there have been various manifestations of my smoking habit
but at the current time i am broke as shit
and rolling my own
and to be honest i enjoy the habit with it’s various accouterments, rituals and required parts
and i enjoy smoking
or at least i did until recently

more old poetry i’m afraid… and you might want to be afraid as well…
-jester

for the phantoms

come, lie beside me
pour your dreams into a ready ear

come, impregnate the mysteries
substantiate the love that can find no expression and only hates

come, explain what you are waiting for
you who have everything to explore
what chains and fetters deny you the infinite?

digging back into the archives here, just pulled one out at random and now i am posting it, do rather hope you enjoy it… at least a little bit..
-jester

chaotic clockwork

So I finally got around to getting an audio editing progam and messing around with it. It is rather fun really.

Here is my first attempt at a tone poem. It is over six minutes, you were warned.

I am the highway. Hungry. Waiting for the atoms shed by your passage. Wanting purpose. Streaming down me you trace a line of presence down my back. I am caressed and calmed.

I am the spit encrusted microphone on the stage of the ancient club, feeling the words of the youth as they are pushed through me. A presence feeling every person’s tired pains recycled over time. Returning to the truth they are searching for, the explanation of themselves.

Another great man who was just too sensitive, too odd to survive. Richard Brautigan has a deceptive style, at first glance it seems almost too simplistic to carry any weight or meaning at all. However once his books, even the ones that I enjoyed the least, have had time to marinate in your mind you see all kinds of odd little nuances and treats hidden in there.

For you edification, a gentleman who helped to define artistic integrity for me. Charles Bukowski. I have to put this one up, because it’s a great definition of Lewd Cognoscenti in many ways… anyway… take it away Charles…

the strongest of the strange

you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.

those odd ones, not
many
but from them
come
the few
good paintings
the few
good symphonies
the few
good books
and other
works.

words words, where did the words go..
i gathered up all the important ones
in my mind
and put them in a box so i wouldn’t forget them

then i forgot where i put the box

one of my favorite poems by this grand thinker, drinker and wordsmith… have a click at it, and enjoy. Can’t really explain why I dig this peice so much, it just kind of… sings for me.

nirvana

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to
somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.

Who Says Words With My Mouth

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.