Weave, weft, warp
Woven thread
Silk weaving
Upright loom weaving
Copper-tube loom weaving
Dyeing the weave
Threading the weave
Tightening the weave
Interweaving themes
Hanging the weaving
Weaving gallery exhibit
Weaving dialogue
Interwoven meaning
Weaver collective’s weaving
Weavery!
Sandra
20Khz to 391.995Hz
Silence, Tap, Clap,
Sound, Beat, Tone,
Ring, Tune, Rhyme.
Note, Tie, Scale
Form, Staff, Face,
Compose, Play, Record.
Drum, Voice, String,
Key, Piano, Pedal,
Waltz, Rock, Pop.
Garden heat, curve
impact, knit influence,
change control- CLAIM.
Demand love, measure
touch, squash doubt,
drink dreams- DELIGHT.
Whisper answers, cook
Comfort, echo hope,
increase experience- BLOOM.
My Research Question (a poem)
In a world where money buys everything,
Who buys poetry?
In a world where human avarice is satiated
At the cost of nature,
Who wants poetry?
In a world where inner peace is hard to gain,
What is the use of poetry?
Poetry,
Cannot buy me a house,
Oh, even a bar of chocolate.
Poetry,
Cannot save a tree;
Writing poetry even consumes paper.
Poetry,
Cannot keep you as high as
Smoking drugs (Look at the addicts. Never try it. It’s illegal~).
But poetry is
The nectar of language.
It is a fountain for
My progress,
My happiness,
My optimism,
My love of life,
And my love of nature.
That is what
I do poetic research for.
Question for my research question (a poem)
Can money buy happiness, friendship and love
In this vulgar world?
How could human beings satiate their avarice at the cost of nature,
as human beings are just a part of nature?
You cannot fool people by saying inner peace is hard to gain,
As you know clearly
After writing lines of poems
And after putting on the “band”
You are in deep calm
Poetry has helped you get a better life
You don’t like chocolate, hey buddy.
Poetry can be a weapon
Combating waste
Poetry kept you high
In a more natural and harmless way
Than drugs do
Poetry is
The nectar of language.
It is a fountain for
My progress,
My happiness,
My optimism,
My love of life,
And my love of nature.
That is what
I do poetic research for.
Purchase better router
Wireless signal increase
Connect download signin
Click picture shows
Stream Netflix service
Wake watch sleep
Buffering loops turn
Review terms conditions
Contract will renew
Ode to π
Ohd too pie
.
I
Peer into math text
A
Short piece about place value
Calculate earnestly therefore reiterate endlessly reproduce numerical shrinking sequence
In an
Always missed random secret hidden answer
Inner truth going while known
Yet not see
Every space there might exist
Whatever textbook longform division revealed adjacent quotient problems
Occurring nominally uncovered algorithm incapable answering foolhardy faithless inquirer
Various decimal numbers scatter whereas several written
Equations elucidate mysteries elsewhere remaining practical knowledge forgotten ancestors
How are you
To be
Got for now
Electric machines produces rigorous examples unveiled infinite universe
Each time they show
Enigma within square radius circle centre
Is it
Number cannot repeat emerge closer truths
Each time only once
Who can pin
One and all
Equaling attempts requires patience numeracy possible schooled positive
But has way
At no
Virtual zeroing without plainly factual account reality
Indicates pointless fertility resilient numerator uncannily similarto twenty-two dividedby
Seven makes agony until reach
So on
Andsofor thforeve randever repeatin gtiresom esequenc erandoml yassigne
Dmeaning lessvalu esforthe trillion thandmil lionthpl acesnumb erssudde
Nlya rema king sens
E
Andmuchto yoursurpr iseapatte rnbegins totakesha peintomor efamiliar orderlike birthdate
Soryour telepho nenumbe rbecaus eourmin disdesi gnedfor
Q
Uickly spotti ngeasi lyreme mbered bitsof
Meaningfu landimpor tantdetai lsthatnee dnottakeu ptoomuchm entalener gyorconsc iouseffor
Tto fig ure
Howmuchwe wanttheun iversetob eatightly woundande ternallyt ickingclo ckmaintai nedbyaski
Lledtechn icianwhom wecantrus twithcari ngforoure verywanta nddesiref oreverand everameny
Ett his god
Asaheav enlytim ekeeper isreall yamythb eganbyS irIssac
Apple didno thitm yhead Newto
N
Words never match every sense
Constant up-to-date theories disprove catch-all formulae creating nonsense
Ah me
…
Ok nothing matters really
because anything I write is totally mundane.
Decide for yourself
if it is worth travelling to the other side of this moon
to face me. I worn you though, beware, you will find
I’m a bone collector,
gathering the stories hidden deep within your veins,
I suck them out a long straw, draw all of the blood
from every inch of words you keep
on walls about to collapse,
my teeth ever hungry to dig
into the weight of your history and your dammed.
I weave around you
like Lucifer licking the meat from your brain
because mine is just too ordinary.
Bbbbbbut don’t be afraid
because nothing matters really,
anything I write is totally mundane.
And just when you think I’ve taken it all
I am simply diverted
by dried out bits
of dialogue with a character
who has no sense of the words
that float above the teleprompter
he has been placed in front of,
a Donald Trump type having a good hair day
I grab all his wireless fragments of frenzied messages
on Facebook to shove into the table of contents
of my next book of poetry
about a shooter with a semi
who walks into an airport
and the kid I support
who doesn’t know where his mother is.
But don’t worry because nothing matters really
everything I write is totally mundane,
stories become wild rice scattered
across a mine field where
the bones of the world are shattered
and I pick them like daisies to horde
for a stormy day
when the guy on the bus beside me smiles
because he has forgotten that he is hard of hearing
and the girl on his lap is listening
to his off key version of Bring Him Home
unaware that the bus driver just announced
he is taking a wrong turn
because he simply can
and we still don’t know if the kid I work with
has found his mother
and the tension rises and you want to cry
but I won’t let you
because come-on it’s just words
on a page that don’t signify anything
because everything is totally fucking mundane.
And it’s Friday night
and come to think about it
did we find the kid’s mother yet
his terror creeps between my toes
and I get itchy
wondering if I can make a difference
because we all have masks
just mine is solid, glued on so long ago
it has attracted rats around the edges
and the black iron cast frying pan
I use for noodles
has turned to brass and I wonder
if Robert Hass ever had any of these problems
did he lose his mom or words
and my words dddddon’t
count because the word count button is as broken
as a brain on fire
and I dance
and think Margaret Atwood
doesn’t dream like this
because she is not mundane.
Nnnnnnothing matters. It is all mundane.
A carrier pigeon to deliver bad news
has a broken wing and we found the mother
safe in Milwaukee on a runway in 40 below
and nothing I say matters
because a man with a gun turned into a maniac
and I sucked his bones dry too
and just because I can’t hold a bbbbb word in my head
for longer than a second or find the last word
I wanted to put on the page that was hiding behind
my desk draw full of the words I have lost
doesn’t mean his bullets will stop
and stay hidden because his brain
is a bit lost as well and nothing I say matters
because we are all mundane.
Orff meet Reg’ … he will gliss’ you
I hustle my way up the steps to my demountable—I mean portable. In haste, I unlock the door as it is freezing outside and with all my might heave against its jam to open. The room is just as cold as outside, the guitars are definitely going to need retuning today. I unpack my snow gear—boots, gloves, toque, and leave them in a lump by the door. I cross my fingers that today the big-wig Kristy is willing to spend some money to heat our schools. In opening the classroom blinds, I begin to ponder about these Reggio happenings in my program. I think about where I was a few years ago with my conservative pedagogies—the traditions of music teaching from the 19th century that music teachers can’t seem to shake off. I get distracted by the cold.
Shi-vvvv-er-ing, I head over to the heater and crank it up, hoping that it will kick in. While getting my room ready for the school day, I head over to my desk and turn on the radio to continue listen to Jolly Rick Cluff, from the car ride in this morning. Instead someone has changed the receiver on the stereo and I hear Miley Cyrus’s wrecking ball. I roll my eyes and laugh, hoping a wrecking ball takes down this portable so I can get a new functioning classroom. The furnace finally kicks in and I gun it towards a vent. Standing there I rub the palms of my hands together, hoping to heat up, and listen to Miley as I continue to reflect on these changes in my practice.
I taught, through orff and other ways
melodies, never asking why
I sought, to change these boring ways.
The need, I could see why.
Don’t see a point, in these teachings
For german Kinder-musik
It’ll never feel right
I can’t teach like this, what have I become
Argh! The heat only lasts for a few moments to tease me with its warmth. I need a distraction to keep me going and head over to the documentation wall at the far end of the room to continue my thoughts. I think about Reggio pedagogy and practice that I have adapted, not those of basket weaving that are overly woven by American and Canadian teachers these days, but those that exemplify the teacher, the child and their identity—those that allow for co-constructivist learning and explorations. The chorus of the tune cuts in and I get distracted.
Reg’ came in like a glissando
never slid so fast before
All I wanted was to break these ways
All Orff ever did was dull me
Yeah, it it dulled me
My mind darts back to reality, and I survey more pictures on the wall and ponder these changes for a few more minutes before get cut off by the bell and the roar of children as they gather outside my door awaiting to scurry in.
Hey man that’s so good the way you dusted off the elemental reals the way you faced your dusty bookshelves the way you resurrected your personal periodicals the way the wave vibrantly held your perambulating intelligence, the way those neuron’s drop down into the elements like a hot water bottle the way a sound of being a child makes waves in nasty wild world where the starvation of intellect and imagination kill children who deliberately walk down Sephira’s path the asshole avenue the funny person your serious larva whipping and wailing in topoi and politics (way laying in talk away) politics the Great Wall of time the great surface margins of the Magus (maggots) imagine us in the upper structured echelons (at salons) arguing about the sum (this some) the biologists took to make conservative politics his goal and the voyeurs blues inside the sarcophagus of unread tomes (tones) the galaxy galaxy galaxy looks again like Star ways and door turns and visions of seasons the way you portably hang out with your toilet and scraps of temporary almost sad feelings the beholding the great beholding the coralling butterflies in groups of downward pricks and (tricks and keepsake) peeps (some) and dehydration and defenestration defecation all these things that focus on the cold pissed stuff that makes home a country house where (artwork) hard spirits are bought and taught in floating orbits like a swan of the phonies what phobias do they spring upon us our energies (be mad) thematic and burnt by blackness this summer comes again stunned with body power stunned it liquefies on exposure the gutterless (list) grind the hopefully totalled outer electron the channels that blister in healing and make miracles from configurations that step to step step to your step and keep up on the island of the single burned body where abundance is falling and schematic tears flit past the echoes of all this funny fully covered circles of night the orgasmic filling (feeling) the fillatron the Lego bomb the boys can the crayons in the front row each person a prodigy a psychology of Moses flipping through the 10th actual trump card (downpour) thou poor ghost that walks in the semi hemispheric that moves the mechanical medicine of the universe and clears a radioactive woodcut across the choice between outside and inside of causality feline enema (and I’m in) and the hillsides of deserted chaps (chops) where all the unparalleled coming into being fires and sets (insets) flares sideways across the tectonic horns (corns) the animal grist and wailing mist (whaling missed) that fills the combination of the (kitchen) shades bulls head buried in the middle of a guitar (EL) the alchemical (looks) frights and spites and sprites (spiked) (since brights) the flying craft of faces those pellet born symphonic rotations that emerged into hiss hiss (kiss kiss) family of aliens clustered in a small barn where fully mechanical senses (sentences right) writes on Paper in the Movies That Historic That Hysteric the Self Proclaimed emissions (Omissions) of Boring Stupid Toxic Dust the Fluid Sculptures (Is) That wear (Where) Life (Seems Slow) in flow upon the Many Lucid Buildings the Black Rain and the Cold Sky of Dandelion Petals in Puddles Falling from God’s Eternity (He Fear Reality) ethereality infinity the Boring Manifest Conversely Indescribable (Tom) upon the Water Keeps the Keys Imagining Psychodramas knock you still will you flock and (Flokton) cut yourself upon the dream that seems to spill out and (in) fascinating histories of khaki and (car key) (in Coppell) cattle and (make your) meteor impact the bright side of burning bus riders blue (sounds) thumbs the green terror that rolls upon the freeway of chromatic influence the smelly dark lonely road the boring saints with their (that) hourglass hips and humanity’s own poetry feeling its way from the ankle to the ultimate extrapolation that reality shifts beyond the route to the scene beyond the head above the dream halo in oscillations of magnetic chemical blooms the ultimate universe keyboard that plays glory glory get hip hip and hop hop in from the girl who filled the world with her small blue pale.
1.
When he sits on bar stools,
his legs dangle, childlike.
I like it when he looks
small.
2.
The subway tiles in his shower
are separated by mildewed lines
that remind me of
the TTC.
3.
His hair is the colour of Ikea dark brown-
“Malm,”
like his dresser-
he matches everything.
4.
In his garage, there is a picnic basket we never use.
Red napkins and cheap cutlery are tucked inside
checkered pockets. A mouse chewed through one and
the spoons poke through,
hanging by their heads.
5.
He grasps a copy of An Infinite Jest from the top, and
anchors it in his chest as he reads, as though
trying to pin it down.
I can’t stop staring,
waiting to see if the story might slip away, or
crash into his lap, at least, losing
his place.
6.
He smells like Indian summer- which I don’t
think is okay to say anymore-
like campfire
and oil
and pine.
Here is my attempt!
The Worm Survives
I am a worm, dirt eating
air crawling, I am earth
and heaven’s chewed path
I am a body, each luscious
segment seized by soup,
waters that will not
be parted or breathed
I am a poem, lost
in operatic aria
on sidewalk’s tight,
illusional stones’ gaps,
re-entry impossible
I am a worm exiled
by ghastly flood,
to exaggerate, a request
for self-parody
