|Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth
In the creation, you are a creature, a motif,
One who always does Bluebeard, interpreting
Blame, a woman's tendency, with a spontaneity,
Like teflon, all the love thrown off.
Or the priest's freak refusal to affirm life,
For heaven's sake, or an opposite's downfall,
Passive in the sight of a phantasm.
To thoughtlessness? For you and me never
We deplore the teachings of Jesus Christ.
To participate definitively, without reticence, rancor...
He just wasn't a human, Boo,
He wrote poetry and he was a hero.
"What do you mean, 'Poetry'?" An accord of underlines.
I promise he will have nothing to do with history.
You could go to a middle-eastern place in your
Prose, demarcation points beyond reality: caring about
That heavenly entrance to hell. Or when
Swedes, w/heavy-body dreams, in conflict with
Down body, go to pieces, disintegrate, succumb. There.
You might have beliefs of your own, my life model,
Old-time goddess, no nightie, on the long squeaky planks.
White whiteness of a state man who hit on me like a stone.
Like President Eisenhower put questions once to the computers,
Also the miracle of what happened with American unions,
Having closed down the waters of the earth.
He's down, he tells his story and throws rocks at a magic
What a fantastic boy I was, so faithful to Mr. Carmine!
We are a shrine. Along with my wife and animals,
I am realizing the truth; here and there, you Adjunct.
It's a battle of response, bunch of groovy kids mouths open,
Geographical, but now with kids passed out; never
In formal bodies or memory structures, or in
Animals, the cunts of paintings. / Night in caves...
The mask rises over my hand. This body
Was washed, and dried in the sun. The banshee,
Hilarious, also lapses, and slippery too!
Lost, and having to fight, for real.
There goes consciousness, always identified with Venice.
With their fishing animals dying, thrown away and so forth,
Having to make an atonement relationship of some kind,
A sense of peace groaning within a master force.
What animals? Their murky innards look
Troubled in a back window, shy, inequal.
Some people thank their lunch. "A Goth
Girl is telling me she's a virgin, in a Cabriolet."
"Daughter #1 of the house drawing water for her family..."
Later the family gets up in the morning. Sonny
Says, "Nice! Bow and Arrow." Along comes a flashing boid,
It goes CHOIP. "Don't look at me like you do the patients."
"Cogsugger!" "Well, I guess it was you brought
Daddy back to life,"
With stanzas like vertebrae of paroxysms.
Not on a neutral ground of torn-up hillbilly bears,
Extruded like puppets darting in front of kelp.
Cursing shush the young, tearing them in caves,
A beast seriously condemning, cash heavy, and nice.
& in time of hunting man, there is this burst of marks.
Made in the inversive and frequently silhouetted.
A haunch of objects that speculative minds paint.
Something of that grace of spirits who reflect insults,
Communicating the relation of place-time to your
Not with your secondary worldin pleats of the sun,
Where it is respectful to generally become vicious and
sleep all day.
So protect yourself, like a
Female, having gone through her body as a different
Friendship only happens to her, but she does it. Your
Servants become more than vehicles thrown at mass,
No real ritual that happens all the time with its respect.
It hums and is dead. People move from an area & leave.
|Home ~ About Us ~ Membership ~ Bookstore ~ Gallery Info ~ Archives ~ Workshops ~ Links ~ Niedecker|
Copyright © 2003-2012, Woodland Pattern Book Center. All rights reserved.