Tag Archives: music

diaric, poetry, sonic bullion

’25 Devotions

Design for a ceiling with an oval compartment containing an Allegory of Dawn. The scene is surrounded by an elaborately decorated frame with a variant for the right side.
Design for a Ceiling with the Allegory of Dawn 
Anonymous, Italian, 17th century Italian Anonymous, French, 17th century French | Credit: The Met


let's dance raw
Healing is fucking
exhausting.
It’s lay down your swords time,

No budget, no limit
ripe moments
Safe to be fertile;
Darlings, we are
Not property.

envisioning love that never speaks over
my songs on the radio,
rather, love's attunement casket sharp.

Speaking of love, watching you
question your greenthumb,
your withering distressed me;
so do the pigs,
so many more out there lately

voix magnetique
<<ce tout en sîrop.>>

it's beautiful here
learning I am capable of amends

hardly think straight • yet breathing, ink furious • tulipomania and <<Mommy, I love you>> with a tableful of flowers • "Violet" prophecy on the cans and The Neapolitan Quartet

Lesson: always bring a snack.
Nostalgia: red leather interior woody

wake up, be cringe. • the world is full of sufferers filled with unlived life. it's a poverty of spirit • you don't want no problems, you just talk like you do • lilac air in the yard and school bell bings down the road • It was my birthday again. I feel fortunate saying, "I'm still alive." Often enough, it is 1989 all over again • VHS Japan ジャパン 1997 • everytime i choose softness over suffering i surrender to giving myself back what I learned to steal

inside: coming home to yourself, keeping, going gently.
outside: the earthquake.

This last day is full of reminders;
the book says, Just be.

The sensuous pleasure of giving
yourself permission from guilt.

out of the past [diary archive]:

WKDC Radio, The Bard:

Without your readership, my art would be incomplete.

Thank you for your time and attention.

Stay wavy, love always,
Kate

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diaric, poetry

’24 Rather be

Lacerta, Cygnus, Lyra, Vulpecula and Anser”, plate 14 in Urania’s Mirror | Source
When the paperback is two backs curved gently together
Chests closing into embrace
a fire like Beltane, I fish
my nets only to stop and say cheers,

When it’s camping season, tents afire
and the kindling are the children
and the adults in the room hunger
for hot, young blood. Brutal gimmes.

When my motivation is desire, not innocence, 
but my éclat. The benefics perfecting together
in my pasture. Ours to share right now. And I wonder 
who else will find.

Time to burn the candle pink. 
When age’s lip sync reveals down to legacy
down to a pair of fire bugs burning across the tree
us two, you and me, blood of Gawain.

She holds an umbrella when she dances
machucá lo. Machucá lo. Machucá lo. 
When she dances, she stomps.
When I saw you, I knew.

When it’s pugilistic poetry rising
and I love that. Let’s keep that energy
let’s keep the flag flying. Let’s lift
our children, we are Mother. All these kids
are our kids. Look at our fortune.

When we are poetry in motion
in the face of pluto, giving face • face • face
Let’s get smashmouth.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

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diaric, poetry

’24 the eccentric dance of the death lord next door (in five parts with a secret kick)

I. Myth
Astride ice mountains, a mood
daguerrotype of the demoted
planet. Out in the cold swarmed by the wounded
healer, the hateful river and the river’s cousin
the serpentine of dreadful resilience.
Shunted outside the galaxy.
Still, we do not escape metamorphoses.


II. Home sphere
It’s the neighbors again.
Their drip annoys,
their curb appeal draws
your stomping boot. In This market?
Pluto’s loyal diamonds advise "Buy!-Buy!-Buy!
	 “It’ll never be so good again.”
Interest pays some and cuts both ways.

Class wars was a cute joke
but here are the keys—
It ain’t no fucking game.
	Ain’t no fucking way.
You will see. You will covet
your lost privacy.
Your only solace the delirium
that you did not pay
to give it away.

Déjà vu: closing the blinds.


III. Sisters, brothers
When the real weight on you
is the knock that you are not at home
in your own body.

When the real work is to take
space. Terrifying, no? Say, No. 
On your own behalf. That’s Enough.

When you act like it 
will kill you to tell her
how you feel. That wall lies, BTW. No matter
if you built it.

When it’s not peace. It’s liberation.
Justification will only leave you
colder. Desecrated cemeteries envy you.
Now give over the keys
everybody go home.


IV. Sonnez les matines
When Elvis haunts me, his plaints his sad
When I make my baby a peanut butter and banana
milkshake to soothe those cutting teeth
and I finally feel the love for The King. 
Power melted him. I hope he was earnest as I believe
he was. I pray—whether he is 
an alien or dead—he is free. 


V. Leave
This is what power makes of me:
a reach to god. 

What offerings shall there be to Lord Death? 
Hmm… Did I mention I’m not into wine? 
Not this pale suburbia mama, no Sirree, sorry not sorry. 
I beg your pardon, but haven’t You had enough? 
Haven’t you been on the dole too long?


VI. The Secret Kick
Her hiss is a kiss
I'll eat it all up, please.
I may be a Sag 
but I love me Thee Stallion.

This winter is unearthly beautiful
despite the plagues, 
despite the genocide. 
Must be some of that Snow, Tina. 
Must be some of that pinkwash
heart glow that the shareholders could never 
kill nor take. After all,
This Is Regeneration Season
for the next 20 years.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

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diaric, poetry

’23 you didn’t read the book??

Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash
messy messy mess-mess
	mess messy mess

mess and listen run aground
messy kiss and lies
	
messy messy mess-mess;
	A pocketful of rye
messy messy mess-mess;
	And us an angel tie.

Four-and-twenty blackbirds, fenceposts of the day
messy messy mess-mess;
I keep what you say.

messy messy mess-mess;
baked it in a pie.
	oh-so-hot your steel-beamed truth
to be your reject is to be my butterfly

it's time to take to the bath. 
Timing just for redress.

When it’s time for the answers to all keys
And the fresh sack of flour is spoilt.
When I am the fire in the belly, serving
the witch that you need.

when baby needs a new pair of shoes
so we went to bed with six.

Monthly jukebox1:

  1. For some reason, everywhere I go, I hear “Hotel California”. The Eagles have something for me, it would seem. lmk fellas. ↩︎

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

* ’22 B Sounds
* ’21 Even my silence is powerful
* ’20 Bagheera Chamomile
* ’19 The Jasper Vessel

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diaric, poetry

’23 Consequences

square photo of orca whale keychain in a blue-bottomed toy water table
The summer of smoke teaching us to pay
better attention to air quality scores

A bike without a wheel

Istanbul was a cat in your bed
then turned around into an international traffic incident

Desperate for a smile.

What’s enough warning for a 
tidal reckoning?

When experimentation is the object, don’t you see? 
No, you feel. The eyes of the sea. 

P		L		A		Y

and some Roy Orbison MAX VOL, I expect.

I jotted this down early
before my clear bottle
arrives my sailboat, 
salvation, my vessel of 
surrender.


<<I am brave>>
     --aged six
songs coming through the vines and lines this time around
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diaric, poetry

’23 a pity to stay the same

Photo by cottonbro studio

don’t you know/
‘twould be a pity to stay/

the same. there’s no time/
for that. busted. old. moot./

when you’re looking for Justice on streams/
but not time yet. when lake como is in the algo/

but not (why?) yet. and her mirror had pink waves/
framing it like the building with its hem lifted/

like a secret peep, a winking ankle at you/
and that was the doorway./

when the sun is in my commitments/
and your values get the shine/

when it’s analogue plush and dizzy bird digital/
– i’m the siren – the way you’re mine./

xoxo,
now you know.

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diaric, poetry

I’ll quote myself this time

the soundtrack to my waking was j’ai été au bal
my night viewing is a nightingale luring a fox.

this afternoon, the historian referred to the wantons as rams in spring.
this afternoon of the phlebotomist’s atrocities.
blaming a baby for your carelessness. how dare you.
“her veins are too tiny”; you didn’t even give her bandages. how dare you.
you gave up halfway. on each arm!

stories in my stack: the moors, wives & children, cassettes of a growing voice
there’s an offer on the table.

when invitations are for the giving and the taking.

there are clues and you cannot hide them.

Photo by Shubham Dhage on Unsplash
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