Anew No Poetry For U: The Real Outside

Much of the original format of this small, dessicated sack of Internet consisted of a stringing of interesting articles, poems, images, and flicks that I encountered or wanted to store in hard memory--what I really want to do is write a more formal organum based on my former material, mainly a collection of odds (with no ends) in the world of outsider art, literature, and experience with some of my commentary. That is, my main interest encompasses people who are creating interesting material even though they are outside the margins of art or society. These include: ()the mentally ill, the ()cognitively different, ()convicts and prisoners, ()folk or naive artist, and to a smaller degree the ()politically shunned (feminists, eco-activists, etc): including artists who were inspired by the works and ideas of outsiders (de-focusing painting, since it is so widespread).

I will slowly and methodically extinct the former material which does not mesh once this white corner of Internet mulch is replaced by a more harmonic repertoire of nick-knacks, a collection of jars.

Consider this "Under Construction" noisy, obstructive, and soon to be polished.

The best way to navigate through this material is to select a topic or tag and view the elements contained within. You can also relax and simply click on the "next" button at the end of the featured post.

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Thursday, December 9, 2010

A Real Motorcycle by Ering Moure

 just fuck, yowza! hey!
**********************
A Real Motorcycle by Erin Moure
Unspeakable. The word that fills up the
poem, that the head
tries to excise.
At 6 a.m., the wet lion. Its sewn plush face
on the porch rail in the rain.
Heavy rains later, & maybe a thunderstorm.
12 or 13 degrees.

Inside: an iris, candle, poster of the
many-breasted Artemis in a stone hat
from Anatolia

A little pedal steel guitar

A photograph of her at a table by the sea,
her shoulder blocked by the red geranium.
The sea tho invisible can be smelled by the casual watcher
Incredible salt air
in my throat when I see her.

"Suddenly you discover that you'll spend your entire life
in disorder; it's all that you have; you must learn to live
with it."

2

Four tanks, & the human white-shirted body
stopped on June 5 in Place Tian an Men.

Or "a red pullover K-Way." There is not much time left
to say these things. The urgency of that,

desire that dogged the body all winter
& has scarcely left,
now awaits the lilacs, their small white bunches.
Gaily.
As if their posies will light up
the curious old intentional bruise.

Adjective, adjective, adjective, noun!

3

Or just, lilac moon.

What we must, & cannot, excise from the head.
Her hand holding, oh, The New Path to the Waterfall?
Or the time I walked in too quickly, looked up
at her shirtless, grinning.
Pulling her down into the front of me, silly!
Sitting down sudden to make a lap for her...
Kissing the back of her leg.

4

Actually the leg kiss was a dream, later enacted
we laughed at it,
why didn't you do it
she said
when you thought of it.

The excisable thought, later
desired or
necessary.
Or shuddered at, in memory.

Later, it is repeated for the cameras
with such unease.

& now, stuck in the head.
Like running the motorcycle full-tilt into the hay bales.
What is the motorcycle doing in the poem

A. said.

It's an image, E. said back.
It's a crash in the head, she said.

It's a real motorcycle.


Afterthought 1

0 excise this: her back turned,
she concentrates on something
in a kitchen sink,
& I sit behind her,
running my fingers on
the table edge.

0 excise this.


Afterthought 2

& after, excise, excise.
If the source of the pain could be located
using geological survey equipment.
Into the sedimentary layers, the slippage,
the surge of the igneous intrusion.
Or the flat bottom of the former sea
I grew up on,
Running the motorcycle into the round
bay bales.
Hay grass poking the skin.
The back wet.

Hey, I shouted,
Her back turned to me, its location
now visible only in the head.

When I can't stand it,
I invent anything, even memories.

She gets up, hair stuck with hay.

I invented this. Yeow.

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