essay: #075: cherry blossoms in autumn

A friend, adored.
Designs calligraphy for my spine.
While another says:
"I dream of you, at night..."


k.stoilkovich

Cherry blossoms in autumn.
And 4-million-year-old whale skeletons.
Excavated in Tuscany.
Tsunamis, meanwhile.
Washes away.
Us...

What was once.
Is now no longer.
And liberation.
Beautifully complete.
Complicit.
Makes me soar.
And smile.
As another branch extends.
Into the wide open vista.
Of the unknown...

# transmission ends #

essay: #074: three colours cobalt

If emotions were a landscape.
They'd be the jagged backbone.
Of this mystical land.



They'd be...
The cobalt blue.
Of North and South islands.
Tattooed vines across my spine.
An ipod, to soundtrack by.
The Strokes.
"Life seems unreal..."
And it is.
For the uninitiated…

Yes.
Three colours cobalt of an accidental tourist.
To kin, long missed.
And gifts, not expected.
To silvery skies to surf.
And geothermal lands to explore.
love.
love.
love.
the fucking craziness of it all ...

# transmission ends #

essay: #073: architecture of happiness

The architecture of happiness.
Such a beautiful decree.
Says once you find the missing piece.
Grab hold tight.
Never let go….

The architecture of life.
Alternately.
Says the spark will burn.
Sometimes, more brightly.
What do we know?
What do we desire?

Restless as the albatross.
Circling the seven seas.
Adoring, this world.
For its love.
And its hate.

The architecture of now.
A fabric, sewn of this.
Below.

“She was made after the time of ribs and mud. By papal decree there was to be no more people born of the ground or from the marrow of bones. She was first to be created: cardboard legs, cellophane appendix, and paper breasts. Created not from the ribs of man but from paper scraps.”

And sometime, later…

“She stepped over her creator, spreading his blood across the polished floor, and then walked out of the factory and into the storm. The print of her arms smeared; her soaked feet tattered as they scrapped against wet pavement and turned her toes to pulp.” People of Paper, Salvador Plascencia

“It’s about the beauty of it all.”
Whispers someone close.
Someone loved.
Yes, expression.
Ability to imagine.
So many, many possibilities...


# transmission ends #

essay: #072: sweet miles

Sometimes, things touch you.
Move you, beyond power of words.
Children in the fading light, of a sunset.
To the warm nectar, of Miles.
So warm, so wrap me in the sun.
So Sketches of Spain...

To friends, who will be missed.
And the warmth of their arms,around me.
In this ever-changing world, we adore...



Sketches of summer global warming.
Adios, and sayonara...

essay: #071: Radiance

Watching summer storm, blow in.
Winds sultry and hot.
On destiny's horizon.
Think of snow,in Malibu.
And Doomsday Clock slipped forward.

Think of Babel and its multiple tongues.
The horror, the beauty.
Time has legs and marches on.
Can we ever be.
But a footprint, in the sand?

#transmission ends #

essay: #070: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Damn this confessional.
Dragging it all to the surface.
The flaws.
The vulnerability.
The ambition...

"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean, if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy...." - Catcher In The Rye

Damn this confessional.
For leaving footprints in the sand....

# transmission ends #

essay: #069: The Size of Houston.

North Korea is a gulag,the size of Houston.
Says Mr President.
When all I see, is.
Little boys with nuclear toys.
Of a nation living in Dark Ages.
Of plutonium, more prized, than electricity.
Of a North and South.
Always at war.
Of people's starved.
And leader's plump.

Sanctions forthcoming.
For provocative acts.
From Toy soldier regime.
Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang and goodnight....

# transmission ends #

essay: #068: In memorial

Obsessed by the moon.
And all that it illuminates.
War on terror.
And terror of war.

Of a sombre silence.
So deep.
So penetrating.

In memorial.
184 beams of light.
To commemorate.
The day the world stopped...
Falling.
We still are....

# transmission ends #

essay: #067: fairytales for the modern age.

My son adores the world.
Of Roald Dahl.
Reveres him, like a God.
Land of friendly giants.
And fairytales, for the modern age.

How do I tell him.
People fall like leaves.
From planes in the sky.
And plot with malice.
Yet, when we love.
We understand the meaning of life...

So, I wrap him in my arms.
And write for a better future.
Letters to him.
And his own.
A million miles from now.

# transmission ends #

essay: #066

Love is...

essay: #065: Dresden of Ruins

AFP photo.

If Gus Van Sant's camera was rolling.
There would be silence, right now.
In the aftermath of violence.
As a man surveys.
Where once there was life.
Now, there is only ruin.
And all he can ask.
Is why?

# transmission ends #

essay: #064: i still dream in color

My name is borg #775433.
And I work for a Corporation.
Slave to consumerism.
Rat in a cage...
THANK YOU FOR VISITING TODAY, MAM.
WE DO HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR STAY.

And yet, all I see.
Is this...
Endless beach.
Crystalline and virgin.
Tropical rainforests, not yet vanished.
Great Barrier Reef, eye candy for the mind.
So damn breathtaking, it hurts.
And it will, I know.

death by tropical paradise.
i dream in color, every day.

# transmission ends #

essay: #063: Because...

Sisters, always.

essay: #062: Romance Strangely

c.victorynewsmagazine

I think of...
Intravenous drips, hanging from trees.
Indonesia, 2006, post 6.3 quake.
Mount Merapi, meanwhile.
Rumbles discontentedly.
In the distance.

I think of...
US-hurricane season's about to begin.
Predictions grim, sorry to say.
Drills, for all kinds of eventuality.

I think of...
A suicide vest.
Constructed, for maximum fatality.
Impact, of the worst kind.

I think of...
Being the accidental tourist.
Romance strangely, with a point in time.

And then, as always.
I think of...
Tenderness, of a fleeting second.
Fabulous, to the last...

# transmission ends #

essay:#061: Tatooine Tomorrow

Saw a biblical spectacle, recently.
Beautiful and breathtaking.
Nature, at her most sublime.
Sandstorm, on the verge of Sudan.
Rise up, red and grainy.
Swallowing city, whole.

Meanwhile.
In a galaxy.
Not, far, far away...

ASSOCIATED PRESS REPORT

Chinese weather specialists used chemicals to engineer Beijing's heaviest rainfall of the year. Technicians fired seven rocket shells containing 163-cigarette-size sticks of silver iodide into city skies. China has been tinkering with artificial rainmaking for decades, using it frequently in the drought-plagued North. Last month, another artificial rainfall was generated to clear Beijing after city suffered some of the fiercest dust storms this decade. Whether cloud seedling actually works is subject of debate...

# transmission ends #

essay: #060: eat me

Found a book, of erotica.
In Young, Adult Fiction, today.
Thought about, all the sorts of people.
It takes, to make this world, go round.

From the boy, in the window.
Who lives, opposite me.
Front lit, by the naked glow, of a computer screen.
Framed in such, a beautiful way.

Alone.
And Not.
As we all, are.
In the end.

To a 7-year-old-child.
Who makes his momma, proud..
What you should know about me...
The question, on his textbook page.
I’m a nice kid…
He writes.
And, he is.

Eat Me.
Yes.
That, was the name of the book.
Connotations, aplenty.
Secrets, within secrets.
Magnitudes, of light.
In these here, febrile times...

# transmission ends #

essay: #059: Incendiary

Incendiary.
A word, befitting, our times.
Aflame.
Combustible.
Within, a split second, of itself.

Chris Cleave, author.
Incendiary: A Novel of Unbearable Devastation And Unbounded Love.
A mood, I slip into.
Like a pre-9/11, cocktail.
That's no longer, on the menu.

Yes.
Freak tornado, sandstorm and 9ft-waves, occur in Israel.
Apocalypse, notwithstanding.
And a literary plea, to Osama.
Punctures holes, in my world.
Honest.
Breaks my heart.
And says, so much.
About the here.
About, the now.

# #

My man says:
Power to the people…
When, what he really means, is:
How can one person, make a difference?

# #

Cleve says:
The last thing I wrote was N/A on an income support form that wanted NAME OF SPOUSE OR PARTNER. So you see I'll do my best but you'll have to bear with me beause I'm not a big writer. I'm going to write to you about the emptiness that was left when you took my boy away. I'm going to write so you can look into my empty life and see what a human boy really is from the shape of the hole he leaves behind.

I say:
I rest my case...

# transmission ends #

essay: #058: Suspended Animation

Cyclone season, commences.
Second, in two weeks.
Global warming is reversible.
Says, an optimist, of sorts.
Meteorologists, say nay.
More, on the way....

Gods, be angry.
Whichever way, you look at it.
Total eclipses, blackout our sun.
While mutiny erupts, down below.

Violently happy.
Small cog, in big wheel.
An editor says:
Your work is original fiction…
I say: Honey, snap out of it...
Into it.

New era, demands the bloodshed.
Of words, previously unspoken.
I am a tree, that grows color.
Says the lyrics.

Suspended animation.
A state of beauty, and grace.
The drowned World.
A book, close to my heart.
A reunion, with nostalgia.
To future cities.
Buried deep beneath.
Triassic tomorrows.

# transmission ends #

essay: #057: Russian Roulette

Pretty nasty.
This TGN1412, business.
Hey, Mr Pharmaceutical.
Run, come, inject me.
Inflate my head.
To three times, its normal size.
Intensive Care sabbatical.
Courtesy, of The Corporation.
For the little lab rats, in Cubicle #9.


c. cbs news

Trying to save a population.
That sometimes, resists.
Cyclones roar across eastern shores.
Dead dictators are laid out.
Like slabs of meat.
And six men float, critically.
Through TeGenero stasis.

Experiment on primal cousins.
Experiment on the highly-evolved.
What’s the difference?
Sacrifice the few.
For the masses.
Isn’t that, the way it goes?

For the sake of science.
And, the human race.
Foolish people commit unfathomable acts.
Whores, on both sides.

Human life.
All, too cheap.
"I feel bad, I had the placebo," sniffed one survivor.
It was like Russian Roulette.
I was doing it, for the money.
But 2000 pounds, is not worth your life.”

Enough said...

# transmission ends #

essay: #056: Transatlanticism

c. William S. Turchyn II


Fragile eco-system, this world.
All pulp fiction.
Plasmadelic, wide-screen porn.
Space tourism could soon be affordable.
Say the experts.
Not a second, too soon.
Comes, my reply.

I dream of Skyscraper Escape Pods.
For the hi-rise, in distress.
Israeli invention.
$1-million-prototype.
Lifeboat, for the inevitable.
Lest we forget.
Though, we never shall.

I dream of humanity.
Carved into a cliff face.
And of Philippine landslides, that bury people whole.
But mostly, I see a man.
With a catatonic stare.
A stranger, with nowhere to go.

Lo-fi.
Like someone's turned down the volume.
Swimming through fog.
Amnesia, of tomorrow.

And the lifeboats?
Well.
No, not interested.
Said the City of New York.
When offered a test drive.

Peace of mind, in an expandable cabin.
Or simply, just a Sign O’The Times?
Ground Zero for progression.
Vision.

Cushion our world with airbags.
Numb us.
So there’s nothing left to feel, in the end.
Just like the stranger.
The boy, with the sad, sad.
Columbine stare...

# transmission ends #