The Fifty CD Mixes of Laurie Park

Noodle with a Beat
Chinese Chicken on a Roof
Lady with Wrong Thong
Twenty Men and Mountain Fog
Going Through the Door to Sho-Sho's House
Tiny Horse with Bows
Life as a Line Drawn by Hand
Excuses for Not Dancing
Boy with Big Front Teeth [Winks]
Snow Laughter
Bright Spear and Song Bird at Dawn
Holding Hands on Stepping Stones
Goat Man Honors His Mothers
Old Fat Lou in the Bath
Mud Jump Play-along
Pictures from the Funeral
Lady Sneaks Out of Her House
Go to the Bus Stop
Eat Drink Smile Place
Best to Keep Your Mind Safe
Spinning Fry with Sour Juice
High-Walk Spaghetti Strand
Small Umbrellas for Drunks
Random Light Twinkle in Mist
Your Fish or Mine?
Blanks Left on Purpose
The Yellow Seems Real
Arched Bridge Over Soup
No Place for Ugly Child
Basket Woven of Snake Fur
Colors in Bleach
Girl Holds Kite Like Star
Unusually Normal Time
(missing)
My New Slipper Dance
Three Dolls Tea
Fire in Chip Form
Hundreds like Grains of Sand
Head Stand Kitty
The Better Infections
Dark Place for Rent
Go Before You Forget
Salad with Little Buds
Yesterday, I Saw Transistors
She Carries Strawberries
Long Before the Elephant
Cave of Impenetrable Being
Tuba Alarm Orchestra
Cheery Music Club
Filiments of Strange Sheen
All Alone Together Going
Pink Sugar Heart Pop
Eye Newt and Uvula
We'll Come in Pieces

Shiney Bones in the Dark

Eclipse my moon.
Twang my fang.
Ash my eye.
Face me
white.
Lie.

From when we were young actors and our movies were 8mm.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAWfdbjV64I

Caroling

I find myself in a snowglobe
except it is warm
and what swirls is goose down.
The bells ring randomly
like someone dropping silver nails.
Everything through
the convex glass
seems gigantic, closer than real.
A big pink hand reaches out
and picks me up.
A shake, and I float weightless
as a star's death.
This is not liquid
but a lack of garvity.
I imagine I am convoluted.
Saved by the boot.

December 3, Mark Allen Everett Poetry Series


Shin Yu Pai must have felt constrained by the circumstances of her reading here last week.

She seemed demur and reserved. I appreciate her explanations, giving insight into the inspiration for the poems, so that she could read series without explicated each individual poem.

The poems she read are all very interior, as if they exist within the walls of a museum—a world in which she is comfortable and in control. I understand that the Buddha world is also very interior. Still, my experience is that one is engulfed in void more than one “steps into the void.” The enclosed space of the poems gives a claustrophobic feel to her work. I was wanting her to hang a window on one of her walls—Billy Collins Monday ( http://lizmuir.blogspot.com/2008/04/poets-are-at-their-windows.html ).

I was surprised when I received the copy of Sightings: Selected Works 2000-2005 which I ordered. Her book is very different from her presentation. From the die-cut cover to the exploded text of her poems, her training as a graphic artist gives these poems great vitality.

While I enjoyed her reading, her book is even better.

Slow as Centuries

All morning dump trucks rumbled up and
down the street. Derrida Demolition
wrecked the Lake Isle Hotel.
This evening I watch
yellow dust as
it settles.
So.

Big Lands

Amo rode out on the mesa with Bobby Bluepony.
They hunted stars like lustful astronomers.
The house kept quiet by the creek.
Smoke rolled around the horses.
Something slithered in dark.
Bobby was humming
like a guitar string.
Rocks fell near
and across
the path.
Blow.
Up.

Western & Country

Play the kind of music
that makes me feel like
doing laundry by hand.

Along the Beach of No Return

I find shells in shells. The sun
in my mouth and the sand
in my ears, I know the
hold & tug of under-
tow. Weeds like
waves tangle
wind and
sound.
Cry.

Half Out of Water

I am working on tomorrow, or the day after.
It is sad that I have not been invented.
You told me that I am not wanted.
I believe the rain is colder.
No wonder feels like
this slip of tongue
under the eye
and all,
yet.

(An occasional poem written for the 

2010 Paseo Arts Association Awards Ceremony & Banquet)

A Pleasure 

It's a pleasure.

It's a pleasure to be.

To be sure, it’s pleasant.

Being and all that.

Pleased to be here

and to be heard.

What's it worth?

It's worth a try.

What a Pleasure!

Here we are, still—

perfect reflections of

the primordial thrill.

Mirrored in the mire of  DNA.

What was it Santayana

used to say— “intelligence

is but one centrifugal ray

darting from the slime

to the star.” And he says,

“protoplasmic pleasure.”

Every cell full of

its own joy in living.

Joie de vivre—

as the British put it.

Every bit of life scintillates.

When all these cells

gather together

it must be a something—

a parade, an occasion.

A vacation:

The sunshine spreads

and I see cells chillin’

each under a tiny parasol.

They sport sunglasses.

They lounge on a deck,

which is some body.

Blood is the Red Sea.

The belly’s a cruise ship,

Royal Caribbean liner.

I am one happy being,

being here—like a premier:

Roll out the red rugs.

Throw a few kisses.

Gentle with those hugs.

This is what this is.

Lights! Camera! Action!

Let the public clamor.

Tonight is not ordinary.

Tonight is all for glamour,

a formal occasion,

a rare affair, a function,

even an event.

This special evening,

(did I mention?)

this is all for art.

Art is the object—

thought made real.

This is the big deal

and it is a thrill.

It’s the part that stirs the heart.

What’s the matter?

Art makes it better.

It had better. – It will.

It all seems so real.

Thrilling to the core

It’s how we feel.

We couldn’t be more.

It’s the buzz

between “will be” and “was.”

It’s a cellular celebration,

singular and world wide.

Teasing text, I type

with just my pinky fingers

on a keyboard the size

of a matchbook. Striking.

My poems become electrons,

showers of sparks in the dark.

They glitter in the sun.

A life magnifies in dewdrops.

But this is bigger, bigger

than all of us.

Bigger than life, you know,

gallery sized. That’s huge,

something like liberty.

Happiness, I guess. Yes.

I’m ready for my 3D-Imax,

high-def, Mr. Spielberg.

Bring on the elephants, acrobats;

the sane, the absurd.

My expressions grow abstract.

What’s the right word?

Which ones are left?

Let me picture them.

Real to real, it’s like

you can almost touch

the ideal. Reach. Feel.

Life is a roll in the hay.

Lovers for a day.  So.

Let music fill the ear.

Let color catch the eye.

There are reasons to live,

and this is very why.

We join the occasion

(in progress now). We

lift our glasses high.

Toast artistic creation

in all its manifestations.

We laugh. We cry. We sigh.

At last this is what we know:

What you feel is all  you show.

I’m overwhelmed in gratitude.

Gracious, and I’m grateful

for this pleasure.

But one last emoticon before I’m done : )

as Albert, in Bye Bye Birdie,

sang, “put a happy face on.”

Now, to the fun—

Honor to each and all,

and thanks,

everyone.

Fruit

So, we stopped by the Happly Apple
for some ruhbarb pie.
Scotty had on his overalls
and was beating pans with spoons.
The cream was fresh.
Betty whipped it up good.
That must've been what started it.
We thought heaven was
just around the corner.
Then Bob got mad at Sam.
I don't know who said what,
I just know the taste got bitter.

Line

The muddy river hides my tracks.
Joe says he's a snake herder.
We'll fry serpent tonight.
Wheels go around.
Nothing moves.
The moon
spits.

After Illes Balears

Moon dims, rays
rondo blue lights
across my lagoon.

Music from mandolins
or worn out guitars
reflect the few stars.

Night whips clouds
like high, thin gods.
I dance in down,
thistle and mist.

Fantazy

O, mechanical monkeys
are swinging after me.
And they are all headless.
And I really need to pee.

I run into the jungle
and climb a plastic tree.
It's coconuts are silver.
It winds up with a key.

The elephant drinks cola
and trumpets across the sea.
Buddha rings a bell, so
it must be time for tea.

The panther hides in jelly.
At night he's hard to see.
Yes, the rainbow is a halo.
If you're not in jail-be free.

It’s a Date

(Barcarolle)

Walking back
the path along
Creaky Creek,
I swear there’s
neon in the water,
dark-green neon,
spelling out
R-I-P-P-L-E-S
like neon does.

The fish flash,
while wild
leaves laugh.
Insects sigh.
Birds nest
in binoculars.
Walk back like
we say. We
agree to meet.

—Noon, at the
Point of No
Return.
Hello.

Costumes

The young guy at work says he
is going to dress up like
me for Halloween.
I am too.
Boo
!

Amuse me.

Is there anything more private than a poem?
This public confession that may or may not be fiction-
     this excess of intellect, brute emotion and archetype?
How else can the soul whisper/screem into the variant air?
Clouds are more real and less dangerous.
Rocks are no more substantial.

Deputy Do Dah ran down the road,
dirt and his heels and rocks at
his toes. Ran eight hours for
nothing and yelled at the
sun. He had a pocket
full of bullets but
none for his
gun. This
is his
in.

You
stone.
You rock.
You pebble
in the heron's
beak. You grain
of sun on the beach.
Confuse skin and flame.

Had a care.
Did.
Don't.
You?

Fashion

She had one of those new faces
that looked more beautiful
when slightly bruised--
that color of skin,
as she is seen
in French
maga
zine
s.

The Child's Confession

Baby ate a fiddle back.
Puppy's in the pond.
Daddy had a heart attack.
Who's the with my mom?

Couldn't get to school today,
Not with a bloody nose.
See, the man who likes to play
By taking off my clothes.

Living in a mobile home,
Living in the park,
I don't like to be alone,
Especially in this dark.

Motion

Parties appear
and then vanish.
For a moment it seems someone
say somethingin Spanish.
Appointments
are sharpened
and then dulled.
Expectation is denied;
love overruled.

The Frog

Look at that old poet
sitting on a log
by my pond.
How thrilled he seems
when I jump in.
He mouths, "Plop."
I make ripples.
He writes poems.

How Do You View?

What do you care about
the brick path
I walk down
with this water bucket?
Do you care about
the pot of basil
that needs the water?

Do you care about me-
how my bare feet feel?
Is it the joy
of being sympathetic,
the sensation
of your feet
and some other
brick path?
The sun
warms
even the shade.

And what a beautiful bag of blood you are,
my guttsy muscle, my skin-glistening friend.
Come, let us wrinkle together.
I have breath to share.
I know the place just beyond apprehension
where you want to be touched.
Lets find water and submerge.
Lets live the urge.

I Bike up

morning shade

alley to work,

the bird,

the squirrel,

the young man

who says,

"Hello, sir."

What did

I forget?

Where you going, boa,
snaking around like a prune in the night.
I got some toenails for you to cut.
I got a cup of milk for you to boil.
All you want is your rat's ass
on a silver platter.
That'll happen in Natches, Lord.
And you can stitch that in polyblend.

Lacquer Sky

Roans on the hill fade to sunset.

Among lacy grass and still dust

history make its lazy way.

Joey Dryhorse decides to laugh.

Rabbit and quail do not understand.

The crow, however, does.

Native History

Joey Dryhorse traded in his spear

for a pool cue

and his rifle for a guitar.

He plays prairie grass blues

for round faced women

who smoke and drink.

He plays pools with them.

He sings about days and death,

nights and how badly

he needs a love job.

It's raining teeth.

Lightning's got us twitching.

Gum the dull knife, bro.

Lick the black off.

Back off.

Tote those totems.

Float those bottoms.

Poke them possum.

Toke 'n pass 'em.

What's a bogart, Jones?

Big Dog Bobby Doe

drove his Tonka Toy

up to the back door

and had a blow out.

Now that cowgirl

Willie Earl won't neck

unless you slip a noose

'o pearls 'round her neck.

Last time I was on camera

it added at least thirty pounds

to my waist. I haven't been

able to lose it. I am avoiding

photographers.

Did they tell you fever would be coming?

I found you on Calle Donceles,

of course, with a book in your hand.

To this extent I knew

I could be your friend.

Fix me another Pausademente,

with extra ice.

Con libros in tus manos.

Su libros hablan la idioma de

paginas secas, de viento

y vegas.

Nos digan quien somos.

Somos palabras, brasos y palabras.

I'm feeling happily gelatinous.

Gracious, my protoplasm's showing.

The tender beat him with a muddler,

beat him to within and inch of his wink.

She was algeric to flirt.

His hands were on the brink.

It was on the tip of his tongue.

She shaved ice and slice lime.

He meant mint.

She seemed to mind.

Catherine stared at the floor as if

she expected the carpet to fly away.

Lost in thoughts, she might

never be found.