Pollock is a magpie
assaulted by distant memory
of young girl's flight through speeding windshield
a beautiful bird,
jet black feathers
interrupted by patches
of stark white
upon the branch of a cedar
screaming "I AM MACHINE!"
as frantic swirls are shit
down upon the heads of
unsuspecting friends and lovers
is he said he once hit a doorknob at 20 paces)
gesture drips slow
white on red
poorly executed portrait
not far from
Pollock is a magpie
drunken bitter victim of
his own vanity
paying for the sins
of savage cowboy ancestors
who never quite worked out
their unhealthy attachment
to their mothers
obliterates archetype imprisons energy instigated regenerates instantly
The Continuing Adventures of Ecclesiastes Robinson
I'm not named after the Antichrist in The Omen. I'm named
after the priest in The Exorcist. I don't know. I think everybody
in this society is angry. You're angry, I'm angry, everybody in
the street is angry. That On the Road stuff that almost got
me killed is just for the boys. They're all big tough guys, but
Jesus was a tough guy, too. There are people alive today
who are recognized as being prophets. I guess you can hang out with
- with many thanks to Harry Dean Stanton, Karen Finley, and Martin
Robin Blaser was never a 4-H Camp counselor
we west waste time
run out the door
never stop to open
before the mirror
cursed your own body
in anger at its bodiness
or fingered a developing fissure
at a stranger's funeral?
in the face of insignificance
things to do
while waiting for that phone to ring
FOR KWAME TURE
Revolutionary leader dies at 57.
Display of activist once known as
He said that he screamed and could
"Cancer was given to me by forces of American imperialism."
SKETCHES FOR A PARANOID PICTURE BOOK ON MEMORY
of tile patterns spacious mesh wavering chain mail thru which
unseen is revealed. someone is watching all this. jolted into
solid by loud entrance. cruel classmate.
image cannot be sifted from brain's pan rather floats until fully
absorbed. complete imposition of one person's (or group of persons')
subjective reality upon/the viewer (is watching all) retains cinematic
movements as memory enmeshed with experience.
therefore, is permeable, subject to infinite permutations. pinhole
(someone) cameras (is) microchips (watching) inserted into (all)
newborn (this) babies' asses. always listening. who did you give
your social security # to today? opiate doublespeak transmitted
is neither political nor personal - apocalyptic warnings are like
assholes, everyone's got one secret they keep. but watch out as
soon as they're able to log on to your mainframe.
boxes are too small. rocks is not just rocks. look again. that
smirk you just shot my way is now on file. all this someone is
watching. nothing wrong with that. i like to watch, don't you?
big star you are, shining post post post modern ignorance.
received flesh fucked & fragmented larger than better than
desensitized celluloid eloquently regurgitating questions of community
dig in loose, let think, you can't recorded document received
as presented aesthetic cleverness cannot erase shadows emblazoned
upon cave wall evolved into a piece of plastic shot through with
light & projected onto a surface three stories tall.
alone someone someone so inclined to find impetus in a potato
chip was a bit cracked to begin with sorcerer technician knows
secrets which bring motion to still life someone is monitoring
all this know what's good for you twenty four carefully composed
boxes in order to create moving cluster. the way things might
be. someone is watching something tells us that strip takes life
as metal teeth penetrate sprocket holes, withdraw quickly, fluoresce
in tone the magic mirror serial killers, rapists need no added
& barbarism received existed. flame replaced by electric bulb.
music mathematics meter rhyme. eisenstein counted frames, experimenting
with numerical permutations. long before television so there is
no chicken or egg conversation to be had only deliberate obfuscation
calculated distraction from. complete imposition of point of view
presented as theater to a willing. image received as memory, stored
as data. an informed populace contains potential for revolution.
heroin in southeast asia.
& receive transmit & receive nitrate silver colortinis
which fly through the air transcendent or dehumanizing either
way we are mesmerized. once was always will be receptacles willing
antennae dulled through and through and through overstimulation
too much candy always makes the stomach sick more more more no
such thing as too much bring it on.
cover your eyes, but peek through the fingers. an exchange is
made. you are no longer the grain. you may not have a sudden urge
to get up and buy popcorn, but you are easily convinced that love
is forever & they all lived happily ever after, etc.
film geeks have bad eyes secretly wish to be rock stars harbor
not so secret obsessions steve loved sinatra for tom it was the
kennedys we lost two of our own to the sea less than a year after
greg drowned, almost taking two of us with him.
water & bolexes should not mix close your eyes rub them or
stare at the rising sun early morning rooftop revelation fistful
of mushrooms suite full of beautiful hairy-legged hippie women
saw jann right before he died just after I had been kicked out
of film school in the middle of my junior year (my first failure)
he looked at me with gentle eyes and quoted godard reaching out
to the invisible dumb kid from the island whom no one took seriously
wanted to scream at them how is he different & why is he gone?
"if they take away my camera, I will use a typewriter, if they
take that, I will use a pen & pencil" these words lead me
back to poetry.
crowd scene. the high speed chase scene. the alien scene. the
explosion scene. the empire strikes back. high tech kinetics rendered
in cotton candy pink & green, with a sweeping score composed
by bernard hermann or john williams. the phantom menace. passive
aggressive? sucker born to smoke whatever is placed in his eager
gotta be fuckin' kiddin'. suck on this. stay on target. I like
coffee. c'mon tracy.
perfections anamorphic perversions pose colorful quest-shuns dynamic
diagonals hair in the gate slow breath in the grain of the shadow
pulsating with life like being inside someone's watching sharing
someone's subconcious mind movies.
cave wall moving visual search for the cracks in the clay the
mystery obscured by blood vessel splay as mad rushing floaters
swim past eyelashes in the way someone's watching all this thru
a series of variable lenses.
eyed but cannot look away for tragedy is shared at the cellular
level headed backward downward and and and and and like a loop
like a like a like a like a leader devouring its own tale.
a type of movement eyes dart light dance jump from car hood to
dew spattered leaf to her hair as she passes by the window reminds
you of something reminds you and suddenly you are weeping and
the two of you have never met yet you are certain that you have
always known her.
rise and fall with each cycle of the moon birth life death pass
quicker than twenty-four (24) frames selective memory saves the
best clips in bite-size bits formatted to fit your screen to be
replayed at the next awards show lucifer rising armageddon it
and it doesn't really matter.
fantasy poison every lover for the rest of your life suffers for
failing to measure up to countless celluloid heroes like a spike
right in your vein. no unhappy endings don't test well always
time for a re-shoot but when the lights come up the someone watching
all this is still all alone.
again. look again. look again. look again. look again. look again.
watch in all this is not enough like placebo wrapped in orgasm's
clothing don't buy don't buy don't buy don't buy don't buy coke
& don't accept "butter" on your
cull sure enough? time two time too time to split bust some heads
open perpetrate some parallel editing till they bleed till they
grieve till they get up and leave determined to DO SOMETHING.
(it) move feel (it) prove heal (it) lose true (it) bruise. but
how little we share dreams sitting in the dark waiting for someone
to spark the fire someone watching all these shadows on the wall
someone love to watch them dance need them need them need them
come to realize reality is malleable so why not play? interference
frequent seldom disturbing projector's magickal spin flicker tap
something within someone watching someone watching someone watching
Luna is a poet, editor, journalist, and performer from New York.
In 1999 he received an MFA in Writing and Poetics from the Jack
Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at the Naropa Institute
in Boulder, Colorado, where he completed a thesis on the work
of Stan Brakhage. Luna's articles and criticism have appeared
in the Island Ear, Rain Taxi, the Long Island Voice, the Boulder
Planet, and the Colorado Daily. His poetry has appeared
in publications including Gare du Nord, the Babylon Review,
the Depths of a Greyhound Terminal, Luna 1976, and Big
Scream, and he has a forthcoming chapbook from Dristil Press.
Luna is a Staff Writer for Current Biography, a monthly
magazine published by the H.W. Wilson Company in the Bronx, New
York. He is editing the correspondence between Stan Brakhage and
Michael McClure for future publication.
(Summer 2000 issue)