Luminos – Joey Kantor

Walk down here
forget about steps
a float down onto a cloud
you down here now
no there, no forward
come down here
and I will show you
where you are

All that no more
of course no more
how could it be
when your love is gone
and you, you, you
just you and you are
not enough

So where, what, how?
Now that love is gone?
Here, follow me
and I will show you
yes, that’s it, down now
float down, forget about
the step, no more steps

What space, huh?
What glorious white space
of the world of nothing
no wonder you can’t do
now you can only be
the ghost of the girl
somewhere out there
up there, but gone
definitely gone and so
you ask about what’s next

Next? What time now
that she’s gone and you
you you do not truly
believe in a next
but here now you are
alive, still you
look around and maybe
you’ll see something

Let’s do.
Let’s see. Look! Over there!
A cloud. A white cloud.
Let’s leap to it like it is love
come on, do do do
ah, feel that, down now
down we go on to this
cloud where we are
but there is no is

She entered the machine
and disappeared
she did not want your cloud
and your mind and your
thought and your you and
your you and your you

Ah mountains distant
perhaps there is ground there
let us go to them and see
ah, fly yes fly but where joy here
not here, at all, no joy in flight
until there, until on ground firm
ah here we are down down down
ah, a mirage, not a mountain
down down down on to another cloud

you thought you saw her there
but she was not there and you
you you must get used to her her her
not knowing you, seeing you, loving you
because otherwise you will disappear
move move move move move move

she holds all mystery
she talks into the ear of God
God loves her and you God
through her
all untrue, but true, no denying
the truth of untruth
when you believe it

let’s journey to the sea
ah krita, the rocky beach, the wind
her spirit flying amongst the other spirits
so full her heart, the sea and her home
no no no no no no no no
don’t fall away for fear
of your loss of God
she no more owns God than you

ah, but i see you don’t believe that
i can see. there! let’s go there.
another mountain. Athos!
there is the mystery.
There she runs like a wolf
free, untamable and you you you
no, let’s not go there
for you lose her there don’t you
or you think you do
but you don’t, well, only
if you think you do

Where else? Back up?
To the world again?
What are you there?
Are you not just a pair of eyes
and a flabby brain
with no understanding?
No not there.
There is no there for you
there anymore

We are together
seeking a happy ending
or just floating
yes, floating, wishing
never to come down
or go up again
wishing because even
our belief is waning

But there is her smile
And her limited promises
that she will see you again
but your heart is dead
because doubtful
because you think her heart
is dead, doubtful

Worship her then
Let her be what she is
Like a goddess
live with that until
she gives to you the right
to see her as she is
until then
take her as you see her
for she can be nothing else
and maybe God will whisper
into her ear.

Mortal mortal mortal you you you
The immortal whispers to her:
Do not turn away from him
Although blind and stupid
Do not turn away from him
For there is more to him than
you realize
The mortal carries a secret store
of mystery and knowledge
And he has seen you
Why not believe until you know?

There there there.
See? Her head turns slow.
An invisible power released
from between her honeyed lips
and she does not look away from
you you you
See? Is that what you came to see?
I think so.
We will take you back now.
Now, you must wait.

Advertisements
Published in: on October 22, 2016 at 3:19 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,

thieves

when the day dream becomes a hum
then you stop and listen
and hear nothing distinct
but know you must decipher something
if you are to keep from drowning
in the inner fuzz born of a world too large,
too too much for unconscious man.
We lean into punches given out freely,
feel them, request them from others
so as to feel and know that maybe
there is such thing as force, a force,
something that can move
the cloud-wrapped buzz of the brain.
but we don’t conceive brain, only cloud
and that silent buzzing, that hum
moving us into the future.
thoughtless and blind but moving,
ever moving, oh yes,
and we must grasp the sides fearful
and the fathers we claim
never seem to be moved by the same.
Some come to grow the world
others to destroy,
but many don’t know the difference.
All they see is force that penetrates us
a real live being in the diaphanous nothing
of our unfortunate invisible non-views so pliable
If we place anything inside
as rescuer of our unconscious
it is all physical prowess imagery.
We are intrigued by death for sure
because it proves most that we exist.
Big desperate human-like symbols arise
and are paramount to we the unknowing
giving birth to demagogues,
thieves in saviors clothing

Published in: on July 11, 2016 at 3:53 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , ,

A Low Sound

a writer a writer is what i said i was

a writer a writer is what i am

can’t even make that poem ryme.

they tell me i am wrong

i’m sailing the wrong way

into an orange ocean rather than blue

they say i will die

 

but i won’t let them kill me no matter how brave that may sound

we held them off with righteousness

 

Published in: on June 16, 2016 at 3:04 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,

Let the Angels Reign

 

A deep deep sound gravity awakens night tickles day lays upon her night and leaves. Corrosion explosion notions of nought cannot doom reality or her graces final musings.

 

A ticket to space is not the same as being there. When we wake we realize our dream has left us, but we do not wonder where it has gone. Why?

 

If our motions considered us we would never be able to move. If our sounds sought us after we made them we would be harried and run from city to city like some Cain unable to forget Abel.

 

I would make my world a centerpiece rather then give to it a stone that may or may not bring it luck. Give it a reason to make glitter from the passing moon and the stationary stars.

 

If love could visit me tonight I would sit down first for tea with it. If it could not make itself known to me completely I would go to sleep with the one that I love and dream it to me and it would lie upon my breath afloat for hours.

 

The star’s son has been commmitted to knowing less tonight. The boys and girls who dreamed they would someday know how to dream have fallen asleep again, put off play for something higher again only to wake up wondering again.

 

If music were my master I would bow down forever upon an altar of moon. I would not consider myself less if a smile were given to me by a friend. I would die if it were taken away, but usually I need not fear either and that is a sadness that I bear.

 

If women could only understand men they would know that our hearts too have pulse. I’m tired of being called unknowing by those who think that they know. I would choose no battles there however for no curve of cheek or hue of skin can predict from where love can arise. Not even mine.

 

I love to love and fear losing the love I have known. What valleys have been riveted into my being by my experiences with love. What sounds have coursed through my skull because I have wondered at the loss of love. To have loved even for a moment is enough to make you restless for a lifetime until you know such a moment again.

 

I give nothing to you tonight. I take all for me. The world is mine if I am to understand the concept of the scope of reality. I cannot think less than within that sphere whose boundaries I defy anybody to make in front of me. I confuse light with dark and sound with silence only because I refuse not to be open to the experiences of all or none.

 

Fourteen years have passed since I last looked into the circle. Two thousand years went by before I realized that nobody cared anymore. Who am I to say what is being done is not proper? Nobody. I say it anyway. What is not proper. I do not know. That is the mystery of my pursued quandary.

 

I will sell the dust on my shoes for a million. Take a beanie baby and hang it by a tree and snare a citizen as they come and steal in the night that which cannot be taken except under the eye of God. Adam and Eve. Well, it’s not as though they’re dead, you know.

 

I take my liberty now, but accept the price tomorrow. I, by knowing I do not know and yet exclaiming anyway, will pay the price in looks of knowing that I do not know that you will all give. For if I know, how then can you know if what you know is different from what I do. I laugh and then hide, knowing the argument silly.

 

John Emmons was shot in the shoulder because he thought a conversation silly. Was it an angel that made him jump away at the last moment that extra inch further that mattered? An angel is song, known in body and soul, and therefore let the angels reign…

 

Published in: on May 27, 2016 at 6:57 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,

The Cog

have to drink out of glass.
carry it everywhere and it dangles from their wrists
like a god. a little water sloshing at the bottom,
always there, just that little bit of water, not enough to drink,
but there like it would matter eventually and yet it is lost,
the lost water, the nothing warming water useless
because in too small a container. always more water wanted,
but it must be in glass and therefore never enough water,
but the dangle and the message and the belief
that it is healthier because of it all, but is it? Is it?

the texting hipster who doesn’t know
that the texting device makes him uncool
in the realm of former hipsters, but not caring.
the interview with the rock star: what apps do you use?
the lost generation, the t.v. dazed text starved supra socialized now gents and ladies
of uncoolness. get it now, the moment, catch it.
remember when it was just at parties they would bring out the photo albums?
now it is always. how old we’ve become in our youth.
little old scratching melters into each other
where warmth belongs to digitalized mommies fast screen daddies and you.
waaaa. mama papa we are the now generation, the new generation
where we can watch tv all day, motherfucker!

the guy who made it in academia.
matters while the rest of us flounder and forget
and remember that we don’t matter because we weren’t vetted
and we can’t wear ties and fedora’s and flowers in our lapels
but we can sport the floppy boots and the red nose
and we can cry and eat shit and remember that our past is as gone
as their future is in front of them
because they have a whole lifetime of being known
as the ones who matter in the art that you suffered through,
got caught through, burned through, failed through,
asked for everything through and got nothing through.
daft you. wise they.

america wider knowing it’s got nothing on this,
the land where ideas matter, people are trying,
innocence has been celebrated and innovation praised,
no where out there compares. it is all death delight and long views
fetid streets with locals and no entry no money
and suspicion of strangers.
only in the mountains or the liberal seas can a wanderer find a home.
the rest is for the short view and the flickering light
in somber houses late night.

the smart one who knows 1s and 0s and can code
and can know and is young and is the future
and is living inside of the box and we don’t know him
and he doesn’t know us and he is math and we aren’t
and the way the world is to work he will speak and we will not
and it will not be language that we know, but that they know
and transactions will take place because of it
and our food will become cold because bad and theirs will stay hot
and will go fast and taste great because they knew
and it all had to do with the simple fact that nobody, nobody,
nobody talks or even looks at anybody on the street anymore.
it all comes down to the creation of methods to eliminate you
and everyone you know away from me and vise versa.

the woman with the hitler mustache made of a band aid
walks in the sun with an umbrella and a stern look
while vaping a cigarette, a long black one that looks like a real stick
and when she looks up she sees again the world
and her feet keep her walking and there is no rain
and even the sun is not that burning
it’s just that there is no other way to be.

the past, the very recent survival mode, is in you in a stolid sad way,
making the world of the inner become something slow
when the inner isn’t slow, making the world seem dull
when the world is not dull.
it has no color, unless grey (greenish) is a color
which I guess it is, but it has nothing to it.
it is wasted time in exchange for money. it is like a shit.
it must be released and soon.
They will try to convince you that it matters, but it doesn’t.
it matters only to them and you do not play a part in the equation
except in the basest of ways.
The cog.

Published in: on January 16, 2016 at 4:03 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags:

Poesy

Before the night fell the grasses swayed. All life was somber and still. A cricket bleeted alone as crickets always do, this one, too early to sing, waiting for night as the orange sun disappeared behind the mountain. The water of the lake was smooth, not a ripple, grasses grew out of there too. Tall grasses that sticking up like trees with thick stems and the brown, very brown, dark brown almost browner than the trunks of the trees on the shore stalks, as I said, stood perfectly still. What happens when the stopping begins. Eyes wide open we seek movement. The poets always sing of themselves in the whisps of winds and sways of leaves, but when selves disappear the remaining former proof lives on, soulless, unknowing, lost.
Too much silence can kill a man says huxley. But huxley doesn’t know anything. He cuts corn down when seasons of corn cutting come. He rushes out to strip the land and comes home a richer man for a season, the good season, in between the times of waiting and loneliness. The poets are always looking for friends in nature. Somehow they know how to relate. Sunshine becomes God and moon the almighty mother. Loneliness doesn’t grip them. They don’t need the flesh and blood of their soul sisters or their brothers. We all fall down.
And stories, expanding in underwater silence, our talents bubbles bursting upon the water’s skin. If we could tell our stories, let our stories come up and be as real to each other as they are to all too often unknowing selves, then we could breathe. But breath is but another dream, another wasted thought to the drowning man, his story and his being watching the round orb of the sun blur and decrease. Eyes on deck. Keep watching says you, but the poet knows that even the underworld is there for him to relate to. Even then.

Published in: on June 17, 2014 at 12:16 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,

every time I read bukowski i end up telling someone to go -f- themselves

everytime i read bukowski i end up telling someone to go -f- themselves.

everytime i read bukowski
i end up telling someone to
-f- themselves
of course,
i should never read bukowski
to read bukowski is
to give up all of the pretenses
that you carry with you
every day
bukowski was beaten by his father
all childhood long
he was beaten
if he mowed the grass wrong
because of it
his face broke out
in
boils
women later thought his face
had character
but they were probably just like
me
possessed with a desire
to explore the lower depths
of what’s not allowed to say
to tell it like it is
in a gritty, even dirty way
that you never do.
so when i read bukowski
i end up saying
the f-word to people
and sully my own reputation
doing it
but that’s just the thing
you get tired
of always being mr nice guy
and bukowski never was
never tried to be
except when he realized
that if he didn’t make money
he would be living on the street
an alcoholic bum
well, the same goes for me too
i will be on the street too
if i keep reading bukowski
and when i then speak on the www
those kisses last forever, baby
and people i had criticized
in my mind
in some small way
believe that i hate them
because f is where i go
when i read bukowski
but i don’t hate them
i just want to get their attention

joey c kantor

Published in: on April 28, 2014 at 7:23 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags:

to give again

Maybe
you’ve got to
sit down
and take –
now and then –
Maybe if you give and give
and give
and get so little
back
then you are not giving
at all.
You are just taking
from yourself.
What then is left of you?
Do you feel the daze?
The object of your vision
should be left solely
for you,
at times,
sometimes,
not that you needn’t
have to give,
sometimes,
or want to give,
sometimes,
but, sometimes,
your original line
of vision
should go
unbroken
and what is taken
will be for your eyes,
your soul, heart.
then you can give
again,
have the smile
that is required
to give
again.

Published in: on February 3, 2014 at 7:27 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: ,

Poem – Albert

Needing to know beyond what knowledge,
needing not me,
lays down like rags before me
I feel again instead of see.

Having always seen, always supposedly known,
knowledge anew tells me I’ve not but been tethered
to a big brown ball lowing groans and smoking,
rounding the linelessness of what-might-be illumination,
sun gowned, maybe, real perhaps, or just mimicking
the word beyond the word where the word supposedly lay

at which destination I cannot see anyway so I don’t
instead deeming it right to feel only
watching not watching while the gazeless codes enrich me,
and feed my blindness something of something
at least to the point of wanting hence feeling.

so I smile at the absurdity of longing
to know the meaning of to know

Published in: on February 2, 2014 at 11:50 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags:

new

hello,
this is the world of the new. there is old and there is new and new is you and you are you and

welcome,
there isn’t much point in being here today,
but you are
and I am
and we
together,
although we don’t see
each other
we do exist you know
do we?
oh yeah
we do.
you?
me?
yes,
we do.
all in all and all in all
the world is alright today
so you say
and we all must learn
to love it.

There was a girl who touched my heart
but lived very far away
it wasn’t that she lived for me
she hardly knew my way
but she lived for something
a little something
something far and wee and her
nothing more than what she was
and that was enough for me

Published in: on January 20, 2014 at 9:42 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: