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I am looking for the man whose life flashed before my eyes.  I am writing as my father.  we don’t love god.  we cure him.  after brushing away the bubbles of a bath so perfect I am horrified at the baldness of your baby brother.  it’s everywhere.  you shrug and keep at your ear of corn as if it’s about to set itself on fire.  you are the same way with *****.  these are your words.  when I’m angry I can feel my hair growing.  when I’m angry I cut it.  I write for women.  it is like the glittering peacefulness of a snowglobe you drained as a boy to water a toy soldier’s horse.  this quiet doesn’t need a white male, but it helps.
 Mar 2014 Fragano Ledgister
st64
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.

    Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.

    Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.

    His hope: intermittent.

    To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.

    He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.

    He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.

    He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.

    He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.

    Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.

    Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)

    "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."

    He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.

    Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.

    He has a special attitude towards terror.
Keith Waldrop
b. 1932

Keith Waldrop, who was awarded the 2009 National Book Award for poetry for Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy, has been a prominent voice in American poetry for over forty years.  He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry, prose, and translations.

Waldrop was born in Emporia, Kansas in 1932. He enrolled in the pre-med program at Kansas State Teacher’s College, but his studies were interrupted in 1953 when he was drafted into the US Army.
While stationed in Germany during the 1950s, Waldrop met his wife, the poet and translator Rosmarie Waldrop. He earned a PhD in comparative literature in 1964 from the University of Michigan and has taught at Brown University since 1968.  

In addition to being an internationally celebrated poet, Waldrop is a respected translator of French literature.
Waldrop’s poetry navigates concerns that are at once personal and philosophical by representing a world that is endlessly strange and fascinating.
There is, in Waldrop's work, a steady thought directed to the way that we make our way in the world by thinking and speaking. Where Wallace Stevens gave us the portrait of a man bothered by the march of ants through his shadow, Waldrop gives us the disturbances of the world in its representations.

Upon receiving the National Book Award, the judges said of Waldrop’s poetry: “If transcendental immanence were possible, it would be because Keith Waldrop had invented it; he’s the only one who could—and in Transcendental Studies he has.
These three linked series achieve a fusion arcing from the Romantic to the Postmodern that demonstrates language’s capacity to go to extremes—and to haul daily lived experience right along with it: life imitates language, and when language becomes these poems, life itself gets more various, more volatile, more vital.”
You asked me what I want
But how do you mean?

Like a wish?
Because it's always been a dream of mine
to fly with my own wings
or to control time
so that maybe I'd get enough sleep
and I could draw out the memorable moments until I'm sick of them
and then
maybe
sometimes when I need a break I could just stop everything
and focus on the serene silence of a world frozen in place

But does this wish have to obey the rules of this reality?
because if that were the case
then I could wish for the attention of that one boy
the one with the electricity in his fingertips
and that might temporarily please me

Or I could wish myself convenience
I could wish that my hoodie strings never crept uneven
I could wish that my nails stayed short and neat
so I didn't have to cut them
I could even wish that I knew everything there was to know

Or I could wish for something to better the world
I could wish that natural disasters were a myth
I could wish that 'pretty' didn't mean anything more than the empty breath of air and intangible vibrations that it actually is
That it didn't have any more impact than 6 letters of graphite should

Or I could wish for something to better myself
I could wish for better handwriting
so maybe I can convince myself that my words are worth the paper they stain
Or I could wish for endurance
Or effortless conversation skills
Or pristine work ethic-
something I can use to my advantage in the future to ensure success.

Or I could just wish for success.
I could wish for the job of my dreams
endless money
the perfect family
but where's the fun in that?

I could even use my wish to help someone else
cure someone of their terminal cancer
Hell-
I could wish up a cure for cancer!

I could wish that mosquitoes didn't exist
or that I had a photographic memory
or that I lived somewhere I could wear flip flops in January
or that I would never age, never feel pain
I could wish for an A on my next science test
or that poverty inversely reflect humanity

But you know what I think?
I think it's human nature to feel discontent
and I think
that's vital
to the evolution of the human race

I think that we need it
to continue
to grow
and better ourselves

So what do I want?
What's my one wish?

I wish that I could believe in the magic of the stars peeking through tonight's sky
I sometimes imagine my hands on your  

                           cool skin.

Hush, love, just let your warmth grow

                                                    from within.

Let your light seep out the corners of your

              almond eyes.

I ache to hear the cacophony of your lovely,

                                 begging sighs.

You make my laugh tumble like inefficient

      lovers dancing.

As you writhe and swirl, my heartstrings are for your

                                                         fingers grasping.
Amara Pendergraft 2014

I sometimes worry if she thinks I'm worthy of her time.
My roommate is vacuuming the apartment
I'm thinking about distances
past to present,
empty to overflowing,
shattered to whole
doctor your wounds are bleeding again
and I don't have the proper training
we toil and toil beneath the gaze of an oblivion
too much sweat on the brow to take the time to ask why
my heart is a runaway train
my brain the penny on the tracks
there's no such thing as non-civilian casualties
hungry is as hungry does
it's just the nature of these lives
our carrot on a string
I thought I caught a taste once
only to bite my own finger
It hurts, but the pain is just motivation
to keep on living
and all of those lessons and truths
she whispered in your ear on dreaming nights
are still the reason your heart beats the way it now does
wake the hell up
perfect does not exist
and you are going to be fine
fix the roof
you are going to be fine
Little cunning foxes jumping over bushes,
              slaughtering the sheep I have been counting in my sleep.

I hand-pick plump raspberries while I watch the foxes
              rip out their throats, all of our lips stained red & ******.

My hazy sepia toned dream shimmers as I sit in the grass,
              sipping on a glass of arsenic laced strawberry lemonade.

The cool sun hugs my skin and my collarbones
              that jut and cut my finger as I brush a hair off my shoulder.

I look down at the pin ***** absentmindedly and glance
              at my foxes as their black eyes gaze upon me wildly.

Magenta stained muzzles set in stone as they begin to roam
              surrounding the circumference of my skirt, snapping their jaws.

Ebony teeth tearing me like cloth, jerking my body like
              a frail little rag doll dancing with these fiendish, lovely beasts.

They leave me quietly, bones picked nearly clean, waiting now
               for flowers to bloom in my hollow chest and my empty eyes.
Amara Pendergraft 2014

“People never like me and I never like people,’ she thought. ‘And I never can talk as the other children could. They were always talking and laughing and making noises.”
 Mar 2014 Fragano Ledgister
st64
you are so beautiful

such grace
in your words, power spills forth
with magnitude


you are so beautiful

may your light shine
beyond
all boundaries


YOU are so beautiful





st - 5 mar
so inspiring.. humanity at work.
such finesse.. wow!

http://www.upworthy.com/oscar-winner-lupita-nyongos-speech-on-beauty-that-left-an-entire-audience-speechless?c=reccon1



sub-entry: beauty in / / beauty out

what is it?
is it upon the rags of your face.. ?
or is it the ***** you flaunt?

where is beauty?
perhaps.. in the things
we do not see.
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