Bulbous

I
Bulbous is a great word. It just sort of slides off your tongue. Sliding off the tongue, there aren't to many cases were things slide off your tongue. Smooth, silver, strange. Nice 's' sort of sounds. SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. The snake will bite you soon enough.

You will never yell without a tongue, you will never cry without tears. You will never hurt without your brain, you will never think without your body. The struggle continues.

II
I am strangely in an odd spot. I don't feel right, it doesn't feel right. A carpenter just came up to my room to check the attic, he's working on the bathroom, I don't get it. He said "Oh that smells nice." I looked at him and he said "Can't wait to go home so I can get loaded." Loaded, I never put it that way.

There is nothing important that I have to say. You shouldn't expect it, I shouldn't fake it. This is a dying cause. The rock will crumble and crash into pieces one of these days, maybe soon. The crash will make a terrible sound, sort of sordid, evil in its essence but strangely comforting in its echo.

III
I wish I had a bottle of whiskey and a hammer, then I could get some work done. The drunker the hammer would get the more nails it would need. Work in this fashion will hammer and flatten any of the bulbous thoughts that may fly out of your head. Bulbous. Flatten them, kill them, especially those big awkward ones that don't feel good up there, that just float around and take up all the room because of their non-sensical shapes, like an old mangled bike takes up all the room in the trunk of a mercedes.

The rain on the roof, the rain on the roof, the rain on the roof. It won't stop repeating and falling and drumming the pine needles on the top of my roof. On the top of my roof, on the top of my roof. Rough almost sounds like roof, but the sound that the water is making doesn't sound rough at all. The droplets sound...well...
bulbous.

I am…
Kyle Peets

I am sand that sits still. I am a kiwi-berry. I am the frost on the outside of the window and then I am the condensation on the inside. I am a dirty-fingered-derelict. I am high while I sit on the ground. I am low as I sit on the stars. I am a wheel with rusty bearings. I am a Ruben sandwich with Canadian bacon instead of corned-beef.
The great Canadian honkers that fly over your house in the middle of the night, yeah that’s me. That lonesome ripple in the water, that’s me. That strange cloud that hangs out over Mt. Shasta and looks like a space ship, that’s me. That hair raising sound of a trumpet under city lights, that’s me. I am Abraham Lincoln’s missing head.
Van Gogh would cut off his ear for me. Medusa would cut off her snakes for me. Samson wouldn’t cut his hair for me, but Delilah would. I can be happy forever more, I cannot, forever more, quoth the raven.
I am the silly part of string. I am the theory part of string. I am the incident of string cheese. I figured out that I had one leg longer than the other when I finished the tower of Pizza, apparently it leans.
I am a tight rope walker with the legs of pan, but I don’t play the flute. I am the “i” in any apple products and I am writing this one a ‘me’-mac. I am the subtle smile that sits on Mona Lisa’s lips. I am the choir in the last movement of the 9th symphony, ode, ode, oh ode. I am the feeling you get in your stomach when you’re on the downward part of a swing.
I deflect light like a prism. I deflect hockey pucks in to goals. I am a kiwi-berry. I am the talon of an eagle, the mind of a child, the tongue of a snake, the shell of the turtle, the soft and hard echo of rain on a tin roof. I like to sleep in tents.
I am a steel guitar with rusty strings. I am an athlete without the logos. I am logic without thought. I am Sherlock Holmes’ pipe.
I am a gangster without the pinstripes. I like to Yankee doodle without the Yankee. I am the hot embers of the fire of yesterday, under the soot of today. I am a little squirrel that sits on the 3rd highest branch of an old growth tree. I am that piercing green of Spanish moss. I am a lawn mower without the blades. I am a coconut filled with rum. Dum, dum, de dum.

I am...

1st blog

Key elements to modernism are experimentation, anti-realism, individualism and a emphasis on the cerebral rather than the emotive aspects of poetry.  In about 1910, inventions such as the automobile and the airplane revolutionized the way in which the world communicated.  New ideas and artistic thought produced movements such as cubism, constructivism, futurism, acmeism and imagism greatly influenced modernist poetry.  Key players included Yeats, Frost, Pound, Eliot, Stevens, Williams.

It is always interesting to observe how the contraints of one time period can, like squeezing a sponge, produce antithesis drops of thought, philosophy and activity.  When these drops accumulate to forma a puddle a synthesis is born.  It is this formula that leads to the great philosophical and artistic movement and revolutions.

My brain enjoys observing these larger phenomena through smaller representations or archetypes.  One of the most prevalent archetypes for this formula is found in the parent child relationship (father to son, in our culture).  The son will either follow the father or completely rebel, to form a synthesis, rarely does the son lie in the middle.