iTunes Poem

Karlheinz Stockhausen Has a Run-in with a Student.

This man left a shop for buying coffee and as he does
he sees glasses that to him say,
"You are a scholar."
So to the girl under the glasses he says,
"You are a scholar."

Three days later and the man leaves a museum through the back door down the pyramid steps with a lady on his arm,
both of them in fine coats.
There is a young man who does not break stride as he rinses
his hands, and then his face with the water of a mostly still fountain
and then untucks his shirttails, the quickest form of all towels.
Two people run by in parallel, postured as bulldogs, and timed so well
as to say nothing about the over-large heads of infants
scattered on the lawn.
The girl is there, and she is eating a sandwich with the wrapper at her feet pointed inward.

"What are you doing here?" he says and she replies
"I am eating a meal, here on the steps in the dark, and I didn't even take off my backpack."
He furrows his German forehead and
"but as someone who could be doing basically anything you want,
you ought to be an astronaut
and sing only while in orbit on a satellite, and never have to shake anyones' hands
except for in eternity afterwards."
And she, adept at speaking faces if not German, tells him,
"I have only just recently learned how not to tire under the weight of my own name."
So he shows her about starting to build a new one.

Stimulus: Technological Empathy

Forward
Away
Told
Robotic
lost
and
found
blank

A Sonnet

Eulogy For a Dead Snake 

Maybe if you had had legs, the other

Side of the road would have been a much more

Promising goal. If I believed in God, 

I would presume that this fate was a mere

Punishment. You, snake, are after all a 

Serpent, evil incarnate, tempter of 

Eve. Now you are helpless, dried in the sun, 

Frozen here on the hot black pavement. I'm

Sorry, dear snake, that my bike tire crossed your 

Luckless path and rode over your still corpse.

It was not out of disregard, it was

Just my route, the way I had planned to go.

If you had waited just one moment more

To cross–but what's done is done. Let it go.

.
.
..
.
.
gentlemens is extinct.
.
.
.
;
.
.

year book

I am thinking about how to expand the t-shirt text piece, or to just do another t-shirt piece. I have been taken by what happens as people get attached to the shirt and word outside of school in their own lives, and what a singular word means in public. The idea is very new, so in a few days I might question myself and delete this whole thing. But while it is still a good idea, I am thinking about poems that are as many words as days in a given month. 12 people will create one poem each. Each poem will be constructed very slowly, sequentially throughout the given month. They will wear a new word everyday and really feel each word of their piece. The given word will have an inherant commentary with their daily moods (affirming, nonsensical, paradoxical, angering). Each day, the person of the given month would be photographed wearing the word of the day. The final documentation would either be a flash animation or a photo book, or both. I get these quick ideas that are not so quick in execution. I wanted to see if any of you were interested in participating. If so start thinking about the month that is most important to you. I think it could either be a really cheesy failure, or a way of really understanding what time and planetary movement mean to our psychology and emotional states. Seasonal moods. Deaths, first loves, allergies, sticky ice cream fingers, the smell of pyrotechnics, labyrinth hay mazes, frostbite, grass-stained shoes, paper mache masks, forgotten birthdays, insanity, and terrorism. If nothing else this will be a really interesting way to write, using only 28, 29, 30, or 31 words. Let me know if you are at all interested, and think about what month you would be interested in participating. I am terrible at project management, but I will say that it should start in January 1, 2009 and end on December 31, 2010.

When asked, Mr. Oddball admitted what he thought of a Rolls Royce:
"sexy cell.”

When asked how he would make a living, he ginger snapped,
“I am a living.”
“My body is the co-operative organization; its health, my wealth.”

BIKINI SHRIMP SALAD: A delicious way to get beach-ready!

BLACKGirl
purpledress
redflowers
greenleaves
VenusFlyTrap
bloodorangebutterfly

Sold my soul for you, Clancy

Disclaimer:  I've never published my writing on the internet.  Blogs give me the heeby-jeebies.  I can, however, jive with your style and let you know what I've been working on recently.  Here is a recent piece:

Because We Said So

So it would be 

that we might become decidedly firm 

in our resolution to,

in response to our wide-headed babies

(Frere Jacques falling from their lips)

bring both hands together with an 

unrivaled force.

Or that we may find ourselves

stroking the sun-bleached manes 

of our identical Einsteins

who had, two days before

silently tip-toed across

their own egg shells,

strewn about the linoleum floor.

Or perhaps,

in an act reminiscent of one hand clapping,

we might shake our legs wildly in the air

as grandfather chops off the limbs

of a mighty, hapless oak

with the sincerity of a chain saw.

Because we said so

we may be inclined

to shove acorns beneath our eyelids

and saplings into our bellies 

so that when our fingernails stop growing,

our bones brittle and cracked,

we might reach the upper limits 

of the atmosphere

upon our return to the earth.

HoldMeHorizonArms

Starting to forget what daylight looks like. Chest and back CompressCompact.makeshift singularity.
Ghosts of ideas are spewing through the c/r/a/c/k/s.
All this time I've been taking [windows] for granted.
Bending at the spine. crawling in the skin. can't feel the face.
Stretched like infinity-if you can here me why are you leaving?
I swear these sheets will swallow you entirely

RE TI MOGLIB
SHAMASHI PU GOLA
UMJAB HETRE MU SHI
GO BI SA
LE AEI __LO LII
MISA COM PIEWS
_EI _ON CRO
BI XYTLL
MON_TAG
ROUT
FHIE AUSSI GOLN PII_
AUGHE_MA LIM PADYE
__
___A

EH A HALA BWRAEI
I DHALA DBRAE

Feed(time for content talk)back

Gigantopithecus

Where I was, there was
A lawn, a hill of waist-high grass,
An estuary, a system of stonewalls and jetties.

There was a lot to be done
With any number of makeshift reliquaries
cluttering the back porch and the sill below the open window
however arbitrary the things
found at the edge of the path:
Turtle eggs, downed feathers,
A mouse collapsed and bruised by pebbles.
Occasionally, an unexplained glint.
Something gleaming, playing in the dirt.

I imagine we’re both desperate for a full-lit bird crossing the path of the moon
A dozen or more bats dive-bombing the pecked surface of the pond.
Things here are different, and a quiet search is a lesson in static.
There is work to be done in those spaces
Gaps we are missing the reasons for.
We’ re not so good out here but we’re trying.
Rest your head,
We are weary little rabbits.

I know you’ve got the fur thing covered, but
I need a coat, and I’d like to show you
My machine, my stacks of fabric, and my hundred-two count
Carrying case of thread.
I’m not always sure what I’m doing but I remember where I came from.
Reaching with one hand, I lean enough to feel the ropes joining arm, shoulder, rib, and hip, to finite digits.

Your hands are twice the surface area of my face
And your heart, a pulse equal to the size of your fist.
Could you hold me by the ears?
Not boxed, but the curled rim rubbed,
tugged gently by large fingers.

I feel
maybe less certain than ever,
But ready anyway.
Small enough to hold your fingers.
Big enough to hold your sides.
Knuckles and ventricles
on either side of a brackish country.

VESTIGIAL
VESTIBULE
VACANT!
VACANT!

When we vacated the Vatican,
various small fires mumbled

"The vista was vibrant,
the voyeur was void,
the sister was modest,
her feline was coy."

Glitter Haiku

By Jack Kerouac

dead
??as
??a
???door

??tired
?pit
???and

skin.

re_fine_ment

emissions
throat
fused
points
Transdimensional
chalk
Spare
BLANK
SPACE
armature
steamed
fortification
by
6'8"
box
shield
fixed
Shift
Spread
spokes
Open
stretch
Effortless!
gentle
Newtonian
gets
headlice
chickenpox
heartsore
concrete
disperse
dirt
erode
raw
unbecome
splendid
flesh
immovable
particulate
mere
human
filter
circling
realign
sequence
constant
composition
internal
veiled
impartial
Leave
body
silent
discourse
sum


from
the
and
and
this
to
I
is
is
if
the
of
were
by
with
the
would
be
an
and
my
to
her
to
her
the
with
of
It
is
to
be
the
are
an
their
is
an
without
that
which
from
and
to
over
of
the
of
by
the
upon
until
the
was
no
is
in
then
back
into
to
in
we
to
five
and
fifteen
you
their
your
to
a
a
gets
and
for
will
for
and
your
will
become
the
of
your
will
for
you
will
but
in
this
are
things
one
thing
is
the
by
one
many
a
the
to
in
a
from
from
we
in
the
the
is
only
by
its
the
is
the
your
to
your
with
each
we
the
all
in
and
this
the
a
much
than
this

he may not be pretty, but he is my child

emissions from the communal throat
swell
and spill over
in fused bliss
this way to euphoria
"I" fades
we is ALL
All is all
I know

If the points of connection were marked with solid black lines,
The world would be one
dark mass

an unbroken line through space and time
Transdimensional chalk lines bind
my mother
to her mother
to her mother
the edges soft with
years of rubbing

Pack,
It is time
to be

Spare the longing,
we are alone together

BLANK
SPACE

without border, there is spillage

I am not built upon this armature
I seep from these pores
I spill from my skin

The fortification of solitude
Brick by brick,
she erected the 6'8" box
Layer upon layer until the sun was no
more
her shield is my coffin

We exist in fixed fluidity

as a block

MASS ANATOMICAL DIVISIONS REVISIONS SEGMENTED PHONEMES SPUN SATTELITE VANTAGE VIEW OUTSIDE MEASUREMENT CONVERSION THERE IS TRANSLATED LOSS BLANK SPACE FILLED THE BORDERLESS EDGE WITHOUT BORDER THERE IS SPILLAGE SPLATTERED A SMATTERING OF ALL MYOPIC PERSPECTIVE MILKY-EYED CATARACT VICTIMS OF THEIR OWN LONGING BEING BELONGING FORESIGHT BE NEAR SIGHT FRESH THOUGH STATIC CLEAN SNOW WILL BE TAINTED OUTWARD IN ALL DIRECTIONS FELL PAPER FRAGMENTS FROM BENEATH SHOT THROUGH WITH SUNLIGHT BURNED FRUSTRATED IMPERMENANCE ELLIPSES NATURAL GEOMETRIES CONNECT THE CONTENT AND THE SEEKING

baby, step toward this tangible euphoria

This is a piece about people in space.

MASS
ANATOMICAL
DIVISIONS
REVISIONS
SEGMENTED
PHONEMES
SPUN
SATTELITE
VANTAGE
VIEW
OUTSIDE
MEASUREMENT
CONVERSION
THERE
IS
TRANSLATED
LOSS
BLANK
SPACE
FILLED
THE
BORDERLESS
EDGE
WITHOUT
BORDER
THERE
IS
SPILLAGE
SPLATTERED
A
SMATTERING
OF
ALL
MYOPIC
PERSPECTIVE
MILKY-EYED
CATARACT
VICTIMS
OF
THEIR
OWN
LONGING
BEING
BELONGING
FORESIGHT
BE
NEAR
SIGHT
FRESH
THOUGH
STATIC
CLEAN
SNOW
WILL
BE
TAINTED
OUTWARD
IN
ALL
DIRECTIONS
FELL
PAPER
FRAGMENTS
FROM
BENEATH
SHOT
THROUGH
WITH
SUNLIGHT
BURNED
FRUSTRATED
IMPERMENANCE
ELLIPSES
NATURAL
GEOMETRIES
CONNECT
THE
CONTENT
AND
THE
SEEKING

SOFT HYGIENIC

BIG BIRTH
ALL AMERICAN
ENCYCLOPEDIA EVIL
COCKFIGHT COMET
BORING BREATH
DOCTOR DON
LITTLE LONG
NOW OH
QUO RATE
RED RETURN
STYROFOAM STRANGE
SUNNY STYX
FROM GOT
GOTHIC HARVEST
BEAVER BLAST
BLIND CAMILO
SECRET SEVEN
SAPS WHITE
MY "N"
MUDDY MY
MIDNIGHT MISS
I IMMORTAL
HURRY I
HOOK HOUSE
GOOD GREAT
GREAT GREEN
FIREFLY FLAT
WAR WELL
WELL WHEN
TWELVE TWO
TO UNDERSEA
PAPERBACK PISSARO
TALL TELL
SWIMMY SWINDLE
STRANGE STICKS
SPECIAL STAGE
SHORT SIMPLE
SKIN SIN
PEACH PAJAMA
OUR OUIJA
NEVER NIGHT
MUDDY MY
GENETIC GOO

Like a Stone in Your Belly

When we feel sadness it is always in

The gut, the place where sorrow shares a room

With dinner, both of them falling apart

Into tiny bits. Sadness, like dinner,

Gets so small it seeps through the pores of your

Skin and drips all over your already 

Stained pillowcase. Rotten! Sick! and Sad! But

Mostly rotten. To eat sorrow up and

Seep it out later is just wasteful. Digest 

Your misery, then make sure to keep the 

Recipe. Or–better yet–go have your 

Mother write it on a small index card.

Chew your despair well or it will sit like

A stone at the bottom of your belly.

The Canopy! The Canopy!
So dense and persistent.
Dendritic prey,
why must they persecute?
To get to the other side?

cerebral dots

SPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE
SPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE•
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• SPACESPACESPACE•counterSPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE•
SPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE •
SPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE •fit
SPACESPACE • SPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE•40 lbs.
SPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE • •stamen
SPACE •1952CESPACESPACESPACE•mind
•

SPACESPACESPACE •red SPACESPACESPACE•SPACESPACESPACE•fever
•
SPACESPACE •red SPACESPACESPACE• HOLYHOLE•PACESPACESPACESPACESPACESPACE•fresh
SPA•swollenPACESPACE• RACERACERSPACE• ERASESPACESPACESPA•ear
SPACESPACESPACE•russian SPACE• SPA•trailRACE • SPACES
• FOR SALERACE• SPACERACE•
SPACE•SPACES • SPASPA• ACESOAOSP•allPA• ERASE• SPACESPACE•
SPACESPACES• SPACES• SOAPSPACE•PACEPACEPACEPACEPACES•SPACESPACESPACE
SPASPACE•70%SPACESPACEASPECT•pregnancyA•press
S• PA• fingerCECE• tipISISI•fervor SPACESPCASPACESPACE•SPACESPACESPACE•
SALESALESALE•cleaneverythingeverthang must go•SPACESPACESPA•
SSSSSSSSSSS•clear PPPPPPPP•AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA•underCCCCC•bodyEEEEEEE•
SPOT•STAINSANESTAINSANTSAINT•
PAPAPAPAPAPAPPPP•2weeksSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO•OOOOOOOOOOOO•

SPASPAPSP•burstssssssssssssssssss•
DEADDYINGDEADDEADDYINGONEDEADDEADDYING•¢56

NOT NOT•
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SPP•PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACEEEEE•

gggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg•
•




•__add fresh new words to the chart
•__connect the dots to make the hidden image

everything is connected, except that which is severed

1 (0ne)
free!
B.A.S.E.

RIP
sir
ED

CONGLOMERATE
s q u i d
discharge

clattertype
woodland
workshirts.

transitions
t r a n s m i s s i o n s
failed.

neophyte.
CA†ECHUMEN.
bete noire.

SPACERACERIOT

{I am interested in collaboratively generating lists of words, as an exercise to connect the cerebral dots. Please add your cerebral dot•}

a ghost fire

I cant start this fire.. (finish NOW!) :D

Two coats
soft cream
satin latex.
Fresh skin adheres to old bones.

The Sunlight hitting my face is 8.3 minutes old;
An Echo.
The Smell you pressed into my pillow is 73 hours ago.
My Lips, still pink from kissing 48 minutes afterward.
Cold Air rushes to replace the Warm Place your hand left at the small of my back within seconds...



Occasionally I feel half the beauty of things
is their most prominent flaw;
the inaccessibility of diamonds,
the vulnerability of love,
the fragility of a cloud animal..

my newest obsession is taking pictures with that little camera that comes on the new imacs. it renders poor grainy images, but theres something about it that makes me think of how we remember things - not entirely clear or focused. lately ive been toying with the idea of getting some of these images printed very large, over 18" x 24". 

these were taken at my grandmothers house a few days ago.

icu

a glance upwards.
in your eyes a window.
infinite synopsis fired all at once
like a striking a brick of matches
on a strip of flint
with our bodies
we communicate more
than the mind can comprehend

the letter j in the american manual alphabet.

(please add to this post)

floor/ceiling

floor floor floor floor

ceiling ceiling ceiling ceiling

change bulb

change bulb

change

bulb

sweep

swee

p s

weep

∞+


everything good must die.
must everything good die?


∞-




for nick

what the slug knot said to me:

thick slick and spotted
fold over me
slide under
flow over
and inside
through again
and again
loop like
infinity
one beginning where the other ends
two become one
one being zero
we find that existing together
we cease to exist

A flash ignited the leather skin as a fist drew closer to the kitchen's swinging overhead...
...Words, in various states of assemblage and completion, fled blind.
from mouths_________to ears_ _ _to mind

action exits with the hue .backlit.backwashed. fullfrontalrouge.





{weave words with these pixels}
As an experiment, I want to grant the freedom to alter, invert, and distort any portion of this text. Words, sentences, and entire paragraphs may be erased, collaged, and reworked by anyone at anytime. Add symbols and play with text treatments.

The Yeti sounds

Howl to me in the night; pinpoint
on a threadbare map
Inconclusive rubbings of formless forms
hang somewhere between my heavy hand and weightless mind


Comment to add the next line

Images: Ali Reid

Where Ideas Come From

So thirsty. Eye lids peel apart in morning light....we need to get this machine up and running, fully functional, and totally operational. Just like every other day.

Looking over the lip of the well and theres still no water. We'll come back tomorrow. And try again.

Day two- Groggy.Weathered.Hopeless. Moving.
Looking over the lip of the well and theres still no water. But to my suprise I saw one giant rainbow clusterfuck of
------------s

---------N

----------O

--------O

--------L

------L

-----A

---B
floating towards the sky.

fløk

Fragments of clouds and space lingered in his keratin trap. His fragrance was that of fiery hot peppers drying in the afternoon sun. I think I heard a rumor that he was 9 seconds old, that is if you count the time it took for me to type this.

below,
a black void,
clouding towards the stuble black on his chin
Dancing with the strings of his easter bonnet
no more will the parade go on.

no more.

{add to the biography of this peculiar chap}

image: Kevin Clancy

Excuse Me, Do Y u Ha e A M u e?

Think for a minute.
you didn't really, think for a minute, did you?
did you think by 'minute' i meant 'moment' and so you only paused for a second,
not even, maybe just enough to observe the period and begin reading the next line?
well i didn't.
so lets try again.
think for a minute.
take your time.
did you read 'take your time' before your minute was up?
the minute starts at the period
and ends 60 seconds later.
try it again.
not yet.
now.
no.
not until i say:
Think for a minute.
well done.

If you succeeded take the pill to your Right.
If you failed take the pill to your Left.
Thank you for participating in our 60 Second Attention Personality Assessment.

I write for you (plural), but I don't know that I write to you yet.

I went to see Junot Diaz read tonight, and he answered a question about whether or not he thinks about his audience by talking about who it is he writes for. He talked about the universal born from specificity, and about how, at any given time, you speak directly to one part of your audience, and the other part feels like they are overhearing a conversation, so it can be hard to determine who actually derives more pleasure from those moments.

Who is (y)our audience?

"When Papa was away at sea, and Mama in the arbor...

Ida played her wonderhorn to rock the baby still - but never watched."
- Maurice Sendak, Outside Over There





Write a short passage about how you marked time as a little kid.

When you done went gone.

The roof flew open, wider than windows, and we weren't scared of spelunking. I found my way home again, and my heart hurt for how much I miss you. Velocity up, with the miles. Scaling far more than walls and buildings and catwalks. When the weather gets cold, it needs to get back to the same. We have to be better than this.

Images: Ali Reid

Untitled 2

Cursive limbs. The design is elegant when reality is distorted. Minute chases the second hand. Smoke and mirrors turned inside out. Behind a tattered veil of humid South America shines a smile of serrated teeth,lips. Gun barrel.Insipid carress.drool down to the base.ShiverShutterSurrender. Day to day. Reel to real.
"i wanted to destroy something beautiful", he said.
Born from scars. Maybe that's all we're meant to be...inbetween cracks in the soil. But this changes everything. Mouths/weapons/words/ammunition. To start average wars among average people. dig and pry through the wreckage...save the sole surviver.
Bleach white, blood red. cut&paste dreams.
"i wanted to be the last one to kiss you before i killed you", she said.
Trampled.Crushed. Fast forward through that scene. Walking on glass. Swallowed by filth. Seized by delight. There she is, Hope, hanging.something beautiful spinning in umbilical bliss. Tied by her throat. Air
squeeze slowly.

1,000 miles an hour. Switching lanes. Spun around.
Speechless.

Autumn's last leaf flutters down..

A Year for Cicadas

They crack loose from their own backs.
Abandoned shells, highway trash,
black smoke suspension in the tense august air.
An immediate reminder to keep moving forward, because the past is seldom a carcass worth carrying.

images: Ali Reid

Transmissions shadowed her craterous epidermis. It was the glow of a swelling pregnancy, indistinctly accompanied by visceral bruises. One breath warmed the white tile ceiling like engine exhaust, while sirens offered |||sonic||| reassurance to seduce Ulysses. Crackpipe blues and lemon pulp. Aural mirages transcend synesthetic bliss. Only the outline gave hints, coloring the calm iridescent boarder. Penelope patiently slept through the incubation period. Programmed swells hydrate [our] hope, creating bursts along the seam.

..making soft, suggestive strokes that gradually bring the

{Add one word at a time}

Image: Kevin Clancy

12:47 PM

---but I'm not alarmed.
I don't believe in waking up anymore.
I just want to s...l...e...e...p all day

Re: Organic matter for the Copper King.

One response:

They laughed like owls. It was weirdly romantic.

She, in her slip, cupped her knees like cups and saucers that might go flying at any moment, and her laugh grew deep and rose away, out the window as she cackled and rolled off the bed.

A Copper King, christened in amalgamated mining, with a little more to give and more than a little capital to back up a few foolish glories. They were sweet, and well meaning in the building of their estate the size of a future neighborhood. And then a water tank, town property, an eyesore within earshot of future bells. Something revamped, renovated; a monument strange and beautiful so she would laugh and enjoy the view. A monument strange and beautiful, so the town would remember long after his seven-masted schooner ran as wreckage through a storm.

Behind it now, the ship window of the church takes hold, the stretch of truth from this hand to those organ pipes held fast and sailing quickly.

It’s going to look strange with fresh shingles. Things will be better weathered with age.

(Collection)

...of leaves and smiles and souls. Melted together, reduced, and locked away until fermentation sets in.Thick summer air/respiratory syrup. Miles away, nothing to do.Mountains of paper.Mountains of text. Work backwards from one thousand, but make sure you remember to breathe.



"That was our goodbye".



Did you come to commandeer my days? Or just use my skin? I know you want something from me. And I want it to. I want to live forever.



"It will only get harder from here".



I'm counting on you to be counting the days. And I'm counting on everyone else to be strong. Buried under so many different ¿ideas? I just settled on submission

"It was a dark and stormy night..."

Post in response to this.

I'm a really bad writer, at least that's the feedback I'm most experienced in receiving. So it's good to keep in mind that my attempts are probably sincerely bad and most probably not intended as ironic. Neither is my writing on the order of the entrants to The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest: so bad it's good. I do write online to the extent that it seems "a lot" to me, but it's stunning how really prolific some writers online are. So my writing is like the complaint in Woody Allen's film Annie Hall:

There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions."

Even in small portions my bad writing can seem interminable. This probably is a result of my thoughts bouncing around in strange loops and a tendency to to imagine that two thoughts in the proximity of time might actually have something to do with each other. That's one reason I love hyperlinks so much; check this out.

Looking at Lawson Tower, I thought about the old silo that sits on my property. I've never figured out what to do with it, but not from a lack of ideas. Some association with water and the silo has been a pretty consistent thought. I've thought to have a wind mill to draw the water to the top and then harness the power of the falling water. I've not done anything yet, so the silo just stands there.

I've never given the silo's presence here any phallic associations, but such associations came immediately to mind about Lawson Tower. I saw it an obelisk to honor the deceased "Copper King." Oh yeah, he wasn't dead when the tower was built, and his motivation was apparently to impress his wife, still, provisions were made to offer it as a gift to Scituate, Massachusetts. Nowadays it seems the rich are mostly concerned with fencing the communities they live out. Times have changed.

Back in the 1970's the museum had a Michaelangelo Antonioni film festival. Every Friday night for a semester at college I went, alone. The movies were cheap and I was lonely. I thought of those films when I saw Lawson Tower. What I remember of those films--not much--was the phallic imagery in all the films. But when I remembered, my face got a little red because it occurred to me that perhaps Antonioni didn't really include phallic buildings in his film overtly. Perhaps it's simply a matter that big penis buildings are everywhere in the West and were just part of the backdrop. Oh and maybe it was just me thinking of penises.

I wonder what it is with me and depictions of the phallus? For some reason or another I was at the wikipedia page Erotic art in Pompeii and Herculaneum the other day. I couldn't remember what my path there was, but the nice thinking about searches on the Internet is you can usually find the page again even if you don't remember how you got there. I like the symbolism in the images on that page, at least in so far as I don't have to wonder whether the symbolism references a penis, that's pretty obvious. Maybe it is just me, but it seems that the penis is a big symbol in our culture. I see those penis-cars stopped at traffic lights, always, it seems projecting a little too much into the intersection. They make me think: "You're dribbling."

Reading the Wikipedia article on Thomas Lawson it seems as though his business dealings weren't always of the highest ethical standards. I was reminded of the quotation by Honore de Balzac:

Behind every great fortune there is a crime.

It was a gentler time, those days of Robber Barons. If Lawson is any gauge of his times, he apparently felt bad about screwing over others to become Copper King. Apparently he died a poor man. Did he imagine his gift of the tower to his home community as an obscene hand gesture writ in stone? More probably, as the tower was first a gift to his wife and then a gift to the community, any phallic connotations were intended to encourage stroking.

The two most powerful men on the American political scene are both known for their male members. President Bush's infamous flight on to the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln seems to be remembered as much for his conspicuous "basket" as the "mission Accomplished" banner flying. Via the political blogger Digby we learn that the TOP GUN George W. Bush Action Figure is complete with a realistic fake penis. I'll miss The Weekly World News, but the meme about the vice president's large member seems hardly restricted to the tabloid. This picture has made the rounds. Searching: "Cheney big dick" got over 53,000 images on Google. Both are well-know for their use of the F-word epithet too, the all purpose magic word to project dominance. President Bush can't seem to help from keeping his middle finger straight.

Neither man seems likely to endow their communities with a phallic tower as Lawson did. They seem intent on projecting phallic imagery and sexual relations in terms of violence. Weird. Lawson surely was no angel, but it doesn't seem he was that big a dick.

As I said, my writing most often fails because I can't bring order out of the intersecting thoughts in my head. The only thing that saves me is my laziness; there's simply too much to put down in words. But there's one last group of thoughts I want to gather into this essay that have to do with the feminine, or more explicitly the vagina as symbol in everyday life. One of my interests is gardening and I've written about gardening as The Incompetent Gardener. Googling that, I came across a great blog Green Parenting, apparently they've discovered the joys of gardening incompetently too, and nosing around their Flickr photos found this. A photo of a daddy with his toddler daughter being reverential at a yoni shrine in India; so sweet.

As much as I appreciate tall buildings, obelisks, and other phallic structures, a feeling of foreboding often comes over me when I'm near them. In the West the vulva seems hardly represented in structures and sculptures. Shrines to the Virgin Mary really are the only things that comes to mind. Discovering The Wondrous Vulva Puppet was a delight. Encountering the Lawson Tower is something of an awkward moment. Here's a link to a video using a Vulva Puppet to demonstrate Kegel exercise,a type of exercise to cure urinary incontinence associated with childbirth. The awkward thing is that somehow I imagine I ought to feel a bit awkward about a Vulva puppet show. But in fact it doesn't seem awkward at all.

Organic matter for the Copper King.

I'm curious now to see how each person here also treats a larger block of their own writing. I think it will be helpful in terms of the singular lines as well. So:

Write a passage of greater length (how much greater is entirely your preference) about the following awkward monument.





images: Ali Reid