Special Feature: Holiday reminder ...

Happy holidays, friends and traffic-monitoring autobots!

           In this season of giving {love, presents, influenza}, I would remind you of only one thing -- Holidays are set aside in our life to rejuvenate (i.e., "to become young again," from re-"again" + Latin juvenis "youth") the spirit.

So, for goodness sake, play with your food!

I cannot recommend this course of action highly enough as BOTH an exercise for your imagination, and a warm-up for your masticating muscles (mostly in the form of smiling).

         Enjoy these days/ meals ahead:   God bless & Satan spur,
                                                 - Josh

SPECIAL FEATURE: Collaging 101

Art is like misery (in that it likes company).
So for those of you who would like to join me in putting collages into the world, here is an introduction to the craft, based on my two-years' experience in service of this blog:

First-off, there are 3 basic approaches which I have found myself using to create collages.
All 3 use the basic steps of (A) having an idea/experience/emotion that you want to share; (B) gathering images that, in combination, will convey said inner-state; and (C) blending those images together to achieve that evocative visual representation.
But within that generic frame, the strategy of each approach is slightly different.

1: HAVE IMAGE IDEA, FIND PARTS
For instance, in "Fickle the pickle," I knew what image I wanted (a girl bleeding over a sandwich), and so I found parts that I could build up to create that picture (little girl, lettuce, bread, pickles, "meat," tiled diner floor, etc.).

2: CHOOSE MEANINGFUL PARTS, MAKE INTO IMAGE
When I made the collage for "Trickle-down," I had no pre-set composition, but just a collection of images (headless girl on bed, open head, blood-red flower, men & planes plummeting, etc.) which I shifted and sorted around until they cohered well.

3: TAKE STRONG IMAGE, FILL IT IN (like a bowl)
For the collage of "Safe enough," I knew the image that I wanted to make central, so I cropped it aesthetically and then went about texturing/coloring/complicating it with other enriching images (fire, glass beads, excavation site, trees, a dog rescuer, etc.)

_ _ _

No matter what approach (or blend of approaches) you take, 

there will be some basic steps to the process of creating a cohesive collage:

Compose – for eye-flow
(note how the elements in “Undersides” are placed to draw your eye in a clockwise expanding wave around the page …)

Build and Adjust – for texture and interconnection
(note how the pill-shaped elements in “Vitamins” draw a line of connection from the man to the woman, and texture his muscles, and how the white ingredients-list beside the man compliments the white health-info beside the woman …)

Layer, like watercolor – for light and depth
(in “Camel,” I layered the center-image several times over, blending each with the last until it was prominent at it center – yet integrated at its edges. You can see the same multi-pass staining happen with the dark image at bottom center, of a nephew's hand on an uncle's arm …)

Fill and Blend – for wholeness and subtlety, i.e., focus and no-distractions
(I revisited “Tiny-Brief” a year later because I was so irritated by the prominence of the falling man's and the hill's silhouettes overpowering the lovers' kiss above and the violent rocks below … so I filled in the man with a rusty can and cobbled rocks, the hill with an ocean wave and a toothless laughing baby. The result is much more balanced and so invites the eye to explore its subtle details …)

So there's what I've learned about collaging, thus far, in a nutshell. Go make stuff!

BOOK LINE - Virgins Are Meant To Die

So that's the Book!
I already have a line of 10 poems waiting for the next collection (this brain sleeps precious little), but I'm going to take a break from collaging/posting for now so that I can put this book together {front/back cover already in-process, see above}. I'm only putting in the best, so if there's one you like POST A COMMENT, for gosh sakes, and I'll put it in there for you :)

I'd like to thank especially Julie P., Jessica P., Krista L., David K., Brigitte H., and the natural world in general for contributing so many aesthetic moments to these collages; Julie, Val, Ashley, Jenna, my dear friend Lilyann, Kanani, Jenny, Brittany, Riley, Jacquie, sweet adventurous Becky, Mallory, Eryn, Irena, and the judiciously vicious carniceria of actual / computer-mediated date-finding in general for spurring so much of this poetic self-medication (and growth in understanding) regarding the nature of male-female communication, the negotiation of mental/physical attraction, and the affective/philosophical construction of self-acceptance and confidence.

Since everyone so far has reacted  with some variation of balloon-eyes (you know, ..oo00OO) on hearing the book title Virgins are Meant to Die, here's the back jacket-cover's elaboration. Thanks for reading, closing your eyes, and imagining with me:

*     *     *

                                                                  To the virgins,
                                                    or their champions:

Before you get upset with me,

inhale a step back from 'literally' and think

about what it felt like  growing up:

Remember your skin, when you considered saying “hello,”

catching the air on some sweat that you didn't feel growing

until – yeah:

there's the body your eyes were in love with ...

And do you remember when your crush-gods/goddesses

stopped being perfect? For your sake, I hope you do –      if     they          still

seem faultless, there's a lot of dying yet ahead of you.

But  No,   don't  worry,   love, if your skin's still soft,      pre- bruised,

and thinks the ground will be just another cloud

for falling through.

The ground will help you stand up after

it makes you weep. Die as a virgin,

rise a bit stronger-skinned, and         treasure

the scores that you keep.

       - JK

(23 August 2013)

Safe enough to cry ...

{ spur }

“What's wrong?”

                                        She asked like she didn't see.

                                                                                                    “My leg's

                                                                                Cut off from the rest of me.”

“Oh no,”

                                        She said like a medicine.

                                                                                          “I know,” he said,

                                                                 Like her needle was under-skin.

“Will it heal?”

                                                  “Not the half that's cut off, I think.”

                                          And she laughed,

                        Like some air in the kitchen sink,

“I'm no doctor,

would a hug work to bandage you?”

And he burst,

  Like 

          the   water 

                   she 

              bubbled 

                          through.

Always, Only, Ever ...

There was only one way this was going to end:

With a kiss or a cry – a kiss; a cry.

Because growing up carries up only one lesson –

That virgins are meant to die.

“Silver-lined clouds,” “This too shall pass,” and

“Good things come to he who waits”

Is a lie, is a lie: everything is here, cycling,

Embracing the raw tidal weight.

“Good friends are forever,” “I'll always be here,”

“Some things you can depend upon”

Is a thin veneer on a ship's cloistered lung (

past a rock, then a high wave, gone).

Let me tell you what is, and always, and ever,

The wisdom you'll feel melting dreams from your eye:

New skin needs to callous, chased into chafing;

Embracing, abrading (what's hard holds the sky).

There was only one way I was going to come:

Up the rocks, through the sand, over sharp branches – I

Felt the air on my shredded skin – gasping, then laughing.

Oh! Virgins are meant to die.

Let her down (a song) ...

I buzz in to drive a pup uptown;

A man comes to drop off his dead hound (

Eyes closed, with blood rollin' off her lips).

Wife follows, sunk-eyed, behind him,

Hoping that her hand can unwind him (but

All he can feel is the truth on his fingertips).

I jump over their line of red splashes –

A black bag zips; a kennel unlatches –

And here's little Petey by his paws hanging onto me.

I nod: the man's half-a-step farther from

Broken – his pale wife's taking it harder.

I hope they can feel this Sunday morning breeze

           As I set him down (easy, child),

           And into a seat that he's never sniffed before.

           I let him whine (soon he'll find the scent

           Of my gum, of the sun, of the window's rushing roar).

I drop him off at the local adoption

“Keeping you with me was never an option.”

She sneaks up behind, about twenty minutes late.

“So sorry, a car hit me, had to – ”

“Don't worry about it, I'm really just glad you – ”

She glows in the sun while her green eyes gawk (worth the wait).

We dance in the woods. She puts on her shoes and –

taking a moment, the ground becomes loose sand –

I ask: “Just to be clear, what's you-and-me?”

She says, “Well, I'm sort of seeing someone,”

Standing so close beside (he must be a deaf-dumb one).

“Just friends for now, then,” I squeeze her (the fool is me).

                      [Instru.]

And I suppose the question becomes – right? –

in the end, when you'd rather feel sunlight,

Is it wasteful to loiter in the cool, fluorescent gloom?

I think so: as her core leaves your fingers,

let loose from the weight (so that no shadow lingers)

And hop in your car with the sweet morning breeze: make some room.

           Just set her down (easy boy:

           Not that ends are deaths or farewell such a heavy crime,

           But when a hope become just a dream,

           That end – while it rests in your hands – is the world for a time).

Hope's replacement II ...

Everything grows cold at a distance:

poles          from equators, babes            from parents, lovers                from arms, and this –

the ocean  (almost hot,    like tea,        at            top.  So ankles-first I plunge

off the slope, where sands drop away, and everything

is farther and blinder, uncradled and currented,

more work than play)

from the light.

What's warm is wide,

but thin   :     pull down

from that tangent

surface and

the day

might

as

w

e

l

l

h

a

v

e

n ever been.

The sentence ...

I don't like thinking 

                               that I'll have to stop

                                                        At the thought of 

 kissing you:

  Even if it's only 

                      a kiss goodbye,

                                There are things that words can't say;

Even 

    if it's only 

              on the cheek,

           As the last thing that I do,

                    There's a wordless thing that I 

have 

      to 

         tell

          'Cause 

               I 

              like you 

                  in that 

                    way.

Abnormal curve ...

Love is

Hate is

Hot; it tingles

Good and

Bad: sends

Couples / singles

Growling, roiling,

Humping, laughing to

Thoughtless thinking,

Dreamful gaffing;

Destroys their time.

Yet what is

Great is

How function-

Melting

Love is

Hate is.

*

I think about you way too much

and it makes me feel stupid.

As a loner, I was too smart;

I laughed whenever cupid

messed with a friend's head:

“It's easy; don't let her bug you.”

I'd watch them fight. I'd role my eyes

as their shouts turned to “I love you”s.

“What idiots,” I'd think to myself,

“who waste time on eachother,

looking for peace in their lives through

rage-blinded eyes, chasing violent lovers.”

So I found my peace alone, and it's still:

In this calm now, I imagine us fighting –

so bored am I with sensibleness

that I'd find our dumb madness exciting.

*

Power.

That's what anger is.

Contentment slumps, soft;

Agitation is froth; but

Anger moves, dense, propulsive.

I go

Forward, hungry

And untirable,

Wanting someone

 Who's set me fire-full and

Primed.

And NO,

I wouldn't

Hurt you. I only

Look that way: I could

Hold you, red-warm

As a phoenix half-gone,

If you'd let me in

Today.

I'm a Dog (song) ...

{ the melody }

Aren’t you sick of the games? I forget what you people call ‘em:

Was it “pride,” or “revenge”? No wonder your men are so solemn.

(Come try me on)

To be honest, I don’t calculate:

When you're sinking in, I’ll dig the weight

Up off of you until you're free.

I’d dig a mile: come play with me.

I’m a dog! I’m a dog!

I’m a dog! Call my name, prick my ears. I’ll be here when you holler.

I’m content in my skin, but I’d be glad to win your collar …

(Come take me home)

Through the air! Past this talk. I’m my best when I walk – you know it.

When you tell me you love me, I won’t speak at all: I’ll show it.

I’m boundless; I’m a heart on springs –

Just thankful for the simple things:

I’ll warm your hands up in my hair,

I’ll kiss you like no man would dare.

I’m a dog! I’m a dog!

I’ve got claws, I’ve got teeth – but for you, I’m peach. Come grab me.

We could run, take a nap. I could die in this lap: I’m happy.

We’ll be tired, we’ll be wet, we’ll be grassy, glass-eyed pets together.

We’ll be panting and warm, and we’ll cuddle in this storm forever.

I’ve trembled on the kennel floor

And I know what I am hungry for:

Your fingers on my chin – my day.

Just say the word: I’ll come. I’ll stay.

I’m a dog! I’m a dog!

L'esprit de l'escalier ...

                                                                                  (the tide is coming in. that abandoned

                                                                                    shopping cart is dry, but soon

                                                                                   it will be just another crab cage

                                                                                  rusted. Your muscles are warm –

                                                                    so move.

                                 wearing a wheeled crab cage,

                                    be careful while you climb:

                                  if you tumble back, your fingers

                                   will snap in the hatches where

                              they're entwined.

a flock is coming toward you.

 Your cart takes up the road.

So they scatter around – but

  one comes down, alights

upon your load.)

She's burgundy. “i'm covered in sweat.”

       She spreads her wings anyway.

           no time to pause when the tide

        comes in.      “so I'll see you in

                                                two days?”

           (you roll on a ways,        sweating bagman;

                        find a bed      for your grocery cart;

                             and then,   like a fool, feel the ghost

                                 of her hand    on your arm as you

                                                                                  drifted apart.)

Sense of touch ...

Like   a

rolling arch goes,

 nuzzling  into-ground (

where pressure is taste and

  friction is sound   in the rocks

and dust; in the  bleeding greens,

the sharp shocks and round purrs)

,  along these  simple leather seams,

      sinking  softly, I am faded blind.

            Into the smiling darkness (

          where I find I am flying) –

          I was wrong to think

           “earthly bound.”

            The sense

        of touch

      is like

   being
 lost

and

 f

  o

     u

              n

                                       d
                                                   .

Dry lake (still a lake) ...

The shadows are alive

    with my imagination;

  the dead and empty thrive

         with my imagination:

        Their fangs air, sharp and hot

                                  with my imagination.

              I'm soon but never caught

                                            with my imagination.

                       The last coat of daylight sparks

                                                           in my imagination

                           and oxidizes dark

                                                                               in my imagination.

                                 Then crickets clamor (more,

                                                                                                      with my imagination)

                                        for in the grass there's war

                                                                                                                   in my imagination.

                              And when, through blades, one falls

                                                                                                          in my imagination,

                                         that thrum of chirping stalls

                                                                                             near my imagination.

                                This path is bare, but then –

                                                                             with my imagination –

                          these woods are filled by men

                                                                            in my imagination,

                        Their wind-hearts pumping lust

                                                                in my imagination.

                               And if mine burns hotter (just

                                                           in my imagination)

                                  I'll blow back those fiends (all listening,

                                                                               in my imagination)

                                                            into light, and to non-existing

                                                                                      in my imagination.

                                                                         So this twilight becomes a song

                                                                                   in my imagination;

                                                                     dark birds, a choral throng

                                                                  by my imagination,

                                         Weaving chains before the sky

                                                                   in my imagination ...

                                                               and through them I will fly

                                                                                         with my imagination.

Structural integrity ...

No use the broken shell: a wind-

Shield split & sparkling became

A wall too blind to captain by

& wheezing with the pressure.

A slug back covered in glass      – might

As well have been so –         in the grass:

The mosaic gel of            a snail behind

The boy         who crushed his back.

A vein      of brown decay crawled up

Under      apple-skin red, through crisp

And white.               All from a stumble-roll,

One day back,           off the tree-of-life.

                              He covets

                                                                        the abandon 

                                                                                           of her hair

                                 Silently,                                        this monk, 

                                                                                                     all reservations (

                             A heathen 

                                                                             when he dreams,

                                                                        but

                                                                             who

                               Can tell?

                                                                                   No use 

                                                                                    the 

                                                                          broken

                                                                                                                     shell).

Living funeral {seizenso} ...

Counting calories

     is bad for your health:

                                                                      It'll give you high blood pressure

                                                              Reveling only in              paucity.

   Running when you don't want to

        is bad for your health:

                                                  It'll destroy your knees and hips

                                To feel dragged      rather than drawn.

                                    And what did you learn in                  kindergarten

                           If not that            there's more to the world             than

                       number lines?        That ABCs                           are for screaming

            in the                           worm-thrashing dirt and the                      butterfly wind?

                                                    Stepping on the scale

                                                       is bad for your health:

                                                       It'll give you           cancer

                                                    thinking less of you               is

                                                  more the answer.

                                          Feeling  guilty about           a day off

                              is          bad for your health:

                          It'll          swell you allergic

              thinking             fat is only a holiday

            and                     not also a purpose.

                And who the fuck are you to judge  a  Spring-ripe berry  pie?

                    When a soft hug, snuck in from behind, feels so good, besides.

                               That habit of       stretching and weight-swinging

                                   is bad for your                            health:

                                It'll make you                          tense

                                sweating and groaning, same and same –

                           flushing without coming.

                  Talking about how you've stayed healthy

             is bad            for your health:

everything meta-analytical degrades itself, cannibal,

like dream-thinking “not real”; 

            like an omphaloskeptic Ouroboros

            And everybody dies.

 To chase away the ants and flies

is bad for your health:

To cry without too laughing

 on my rotten face,

  when it finds a place

    to not-move after

       so long moving

   moving moving,

      is bad for

        your

 health.

Hope's replacement ...

                                                                                    Soft light

                                                  came though haze and through breezes

                                                                   at me while you

                                                     filled up my arms from within.

                                                                   That light

                                                                may be dying

                                                              and you

                                                      may be smiling:

                                                   these mays,

                                           all a ghost

                                   on the

                          wind

    (And

always,

  at a distance,

    I've seen

          that light

             out spreading as

                        fast as I run:

                                   “Come near,

                                     be contented.” I've

                                                              chased it.

                                            Lamented. But lo,
                                   you    are warm. 

                    And it's gone).

Framed ...

  I take –

   and delete –

  a lot of photos

             of myself.

Let me tell you why:

                   Looking

          through photos,

        I have no choice

but to see through

the camera's eye.

           Sometimes

                  I take 100

             photos of

     {{!!now!!}}

(most of them missing

                what was).

                I aim and

             wait, snap
            and stow,
       then delete

       all but 3.
Because

                                                                      “My God, that's the face

                                                         I made at 1 – and 5 and 8 and 10.

                                                    It's the look I'll give out at 63,

                                               and as an octogenarian,

                                          And it's not about my face – fuck my face –

                                      I had a dream where a dog stole my nose

                               And lips,

                        and I cried,

                but then looked at these eyes

      in a mirror – still my eyes. I arose

 With this look.

 And THIS one – keep this one. Where I'm sad?

It was true, and I hated being there.

So save this ugly, honest

posture in mind, and if you

see me any sunker, beware.

And THIS one.

     This one, where you

                teased out my smile                                                          while the lens-shutter

                                                                                                      blinked

                                                                                         at my face?

                                                                            That photo's not of me.

                                                          It's of being with you –

                                              just a scene

                               of my

                    favorite

             place.”