Cagesong

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Cagesong

Post by Cagesong » Fri Mar 01, 2002 3:04 pm

<center>Cagesong</center>

<a name="top">Table of Contents</a>

<a href="#one"> Untitled </a>
<a href="#two"> Reality of Morning in Springfield Vermont </a>
<a href="#three"> Immediate Poem (Pretense and Politics) </a>
<a href="#four"> kiss </a>
<a href="#five"> On Poetry </a>
<a href="#six"> Night </a>
<a href="#seven"> Where I’ve been </a>
<a href="#eight"> Vanishing </a>
<a href="#nine"> Cognitive Disonance </a>
<a href="#ten"> Pursuit </a>
<a href="#eleven"> Old Poem, Sorry </a>
___________________________

<a name="#one"> Untitled </a>

snowfall white wash mush
land on landscape in about
4/4 time signature falls, a crow swoops
synchronous to music-radio myth genious
mush, in and out of time red cloth illusion
death manipulates my expert imganation-too precise Brian, too precise for me to be entirley practical, but the big picture is as the big picture is.
Not perfect
sometimes I forget to ask... what?
as well
as why?
What am I doing?
hitch-hiking about, destroying my safe reality with scary drugs
impulsive playground stage set bloom trees, brown bark peeling
underneath is naked earth
underneath lies this core of my spacious space
radio just sort of lays it on thick, a bit better, a bit,
sometimes a lot, when I go full swing
my power to manipulate like absract mathmatic covert-
lies in my ability not to let on too much
because deep down i’ve just been lying-dammit!
to imagine Jessica and Joel
in one car riding this washed up wave of oblivian
becoming rather boring
as I discover this innate intelligence is just
repeated tape recorder cycle, that like a jestor or broken record
brings me up and down
and overloads reactions, sometimes nervous to my thinking
about thinking, toying mental marxism-throw away just among physical anarchism
my worries, about blank-and seriousness, well
now that we are close to nuclear war, new clear vision
is needed, not specific
clarity of a blue lake in your eyes....
See, I am not a dog,
and don’t claim to be real easy to dig
Infact I am intentionally, intro-mystic inside,
and i’m not going to wear my heart on my sleave
don’t really try to be fully hip, to all they say...
they is well they....those ordinaries who save lives
they saved my life,
in the rock dry hard mountains of Maine
above the glowing mist black town, bright lights
factories overlooking river...smoke explosion..neon....like say...ghosts experession
not explaining, right away
I’ve been told, by educateds
I am depressed, wondering unable to focus, just sort of
stublimg unintentionally, trying to explemifly this
existential metaphor, let’s say commonplace Jack Kerouac and such, just
giving a vivid metaphor, laugh.....
that I am extreme in one hemisphere.
Ha! I am extreme!!

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Reality of Morning in Springfield Vermont

Post by Cagesong » Mon Mar 04, 2002 2:47 pm

<a name="#two"> Reality of Morning in Springfield Vermont </a>

The accurate sky, haze
houses camped, strategically
under morning’s entrapment.
Chinese fortune, and Morning star cafe, yellow
abandoned, quiet.
I am Reading Annie Dillard, Oh!
the comfort of a hardcover book,
weighing down my fingers
index and pinky.
Outside car windows of
human harmony, side walks
flow fluid, cold winter smells ripe
of streets sandwhiched by
red brick buildings.
Offices and such-
been here since the 1800’s
when freight trains pulled,
south of Quebec,
ecstatic, blowing sweat songs to
open eyes, heads look up.

I am learning not only
to accept change, but to welcome
newborn babies of thought, cry tears
even tempered, unkown, breaking through
flowing falls of Springfield Vermont,
no longer among the cobwebs of fantasy.
Springfield, Vermont in luke warm light,
glass of mild blue-hoists
American flag, limp in baby breeze.
White streetlights, watch tall
overhead hesitate and
meditate, on a gray women
feeling for her car.

I am in a furnace of coffee,
smoke spirals,
I want to give you this day,
just lay it out flat.
Give it to you to spread
on your peanut butter sandwhich.

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Immediate Poem (Pretense and Politics)

Post by Cagesong » Mon Mar 04, 2002 3:10 pm

<a name="#three"> Immediate Poem (Pretense and Politics) </a>

Mirrors are human
they don't stop staring
everyone at camp is
great I'm getting alone fine
refreshing religous fears
in the levels of my mind
nothing much else
with a body to sell
as well as the mysterious females
as there are in
the first person
encountering myself
so in a sense
again and again
lost in a crowd
as well into everything else
then there is a reduction
I mean sex
let us build upon sex
complicate to the point of
confusion you've given me
so much now I need
an analyst you are
nothing but well
I think you're all crazy
how about an expansion
rather than reduction
I mean love
let's not go there
there is no meaning
it makes no sense
I'd love to help out
small branches budding
White stars attached
soldiers of purple decadence
swallowed by a man
who looks like Jerry Garcia
Let's go back in time
coffee shop set to the
tone of zorro desperation
pleasent to my ear
pleasent wanting to be noticed
pleasent I was eating a cheese sandwhich
But that is your presence
Let's think gray sky
green trees brown driveway
what else is new
school goes on without you
I fear you do not know
how right you are
Love conquers all
thru clear glass windows
lame ghost of jazz
erupt semon of more midnight
But you were right Pathagria
Goodnight Archemedies
I am as modern as
nuclear war the
nuclear age is wondering like
a child I'll wait for
someone else to
inspire peace I've got
to make some friends
I've got to call some
phones we must admit
to being lost under stars
Societ is a crutch
lay down your books
and except the bank
as your savoir
Do not disturb
what's to hide?
I enjoy suffering
in the desert
What you consider
suffering I consider
sex while I consider
peace you explode
I explode we
might as well
just cry...wah!
A slit is an
actual opening
for passage of
waste materials
If it's not a
movie, it's not
really passion
An Arab man crosses
and we are afraid
Arab men in the grocery store
Arab men drinking from the same fountain
Arab men in our American schools
I wish I were a girl
I will not let up
I am programmed to wrie this
in a bed
home fragment
peaceful night
stars in your eyes
Johnny can't escape
he is nothing but past poems

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

kiss

Post by Cagesong » Mon Mar 04, 2002 9:25 pm

<a name="#four"> kiss </a>

I insert a tea bag, let it sink in
the sun has just set, darkness arrives
some like it, I am neutral,
it is beautiful outside my window,
more attractive tonight than before.
It needn’t be captured by photographs,
it needn’t be immortalized, it changes.
I don’t need more memories.

Tea, settles dark, I realize
I am a drop out, and a virgin,
I am eighteen, and have a beautiful soul,
I needn’t complain
I am blessed with more love, than
can be understood. My heart is warm moss
green and spongy, wants company.
What am I afraid of?
What keeps me from diving headfirst into the eternity of fresh life,
waiting patiently to dance?
This bloodless computer screen invades my mind.
Sip on tea.

Something keeps me from returning to school,
keeps me on the road,
cool eyes, abstract to create a challenge.
What is there to find other than washed up dreams?
What is there to hear that is not imprinted on vinyl, temporary?
What is there to feel?
There is no honesty anywhere, except in the trees and lakes,
keeping to themselves.
I cannot keep to myself, so I l am left to try where leaders have failed.
I am not a leader.
I do not believe in politics, so am lost. To be among ghosts,
which I am not. I am of the lost. Lost, a word I can not escape.

What do I want? To be a genius writer...? I already am.
What’s the point?
Bush has just set up
‘secret shadow government’.
I am scared in more way than one.
it seems people are all lost
in a card game. In blind faith....
What’s the point of politics, when there is love?
500 Indians dead. My friend Ben Klein, beaten to
death by anonymous fuckers, in the cold Connecticut afternoon.
We are all lost, it gets darker, I boil more tea.
psychologists, and teachers infected
Students, and Lawyers infected
Total darkness outside, I am dancing!
I am totally lost, I am in love!
This state is like being kissed for the first time
again and again, being kissed for the first time
it is beautiful, sunbeam kiss, lasting forever- past the
cigarettes, and howling blues of highways, I’m trying to
make you cry! Life swims through my veins. I am infected! All directions, energy of one thousands orgasms
kiss of New York City blackouts, phantom, kiss of love!
This poem is for the kiss.


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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

On Poetry

Post by Cagesong » Tue Mar 05, 2002 8:58 am

<a name="#five"> On Poetry </a>

Another poem to pile on the corpses lying lame like junkyard junk.
Another poem to thumb into town, sunglasses sparkling,
Wally ex-Merry Pranskter smile.
Another poem to hide in clouds,opague like the sighs of shy girls.
Another poem to capture hearts, imperfect, lyrics of love.
Another poem to being amongst math, music, myth to rot in the grave of Ben Klein.
Another poem in America to emulate the sorrow of desire.
Poem size, changes, ripples, casts its shadow on your screen.
Poem to shrug, answers, to lay down in the coffee moring, and open your smile.
Poems to dig deep in your soul and say we’ve been there.
Poem to make the sky more than just mine.
Poem to talk about a father of absence, hopping trains of mystery, eyes in the moon of obsession.
Poems not angry, or shy.
Poems about the wind, it dances, let’s not give up.
Poems about community. About danger. About the battlefields, Gettysburgh, and about Waldon where we go to understand solace, and soul.
Poem in the reality of mystery, no more than a thought, let’s not get serious yet.
Poem indifferent to the sublime.
Poems in the cactus afternoon, flying over Denver, trains fishing through Atlanta.
Poems about the accent in which our words flow.
Poems about the image that keeps us, ourselves, flow.
Poem flow about flow in the image that plays our accomponyment,
we find deserts, we dream on pirate ships. We find ourselves in the people we have met.
Poems trascend, small words like acrobats, and sometimes its useless.
Poems make somedays, and great days, and lonely days, and crying days, and glowing daisies.
Poems Haiku through hearty brooks, and document slight changes, we are grateful.
Poetry is the history that is lost, bloodless, and the light than shines on Science.
Poem is the hand that shatters the window of dreaming to dream past the dream, and cry when there is no more dream, but bright stars and planets, above, consistent sky. Poem is the building of elaborate escape, it does nothing but explain, and change, eyes poking through rubble, if we are poets we have no age.
If we are poems we connect like oceans. We are oceans.
We fly, and trust that we will fly back.

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Night

Post by Cagesong » Wed Mar 06, 2002 12:18 pm

<a name="#six"> Night </a>

I can no longer live like this.
Nightime falls, frostbitten forcasts,
idle, dwindling in my mind.
I am up to something,
not going to tell you what
until you see results.

I sit, legs outstreched
planets and stars,
outside, cold, amidst dark blue,
been wet for sometime now
rain sneaks down,
we cannot avoid it.
Hills curl and sweep,
one house watches with
glowing eyes, while elsewhere
there is sleep.
Goodnight smoke clouds
cast your phantom mist
in someone else's backyard.
Queit snow patches,
meltin as I write,
my eyes open wider.
Wide like on the heads
of storming trains,
obeying the force to move.

I am plotting and scheming,
see how my hands fidget
with dark curiousity.
If I could just
find away
I would give you my
heart.

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Where I've Been

Post by Cagesong » Wed Mar 06, 2002 2:10 pm

<a name="#seven"> Where I’ve been </a>

Starving to write thru windows, parents
imagine mountains who won’t imagine me.
Woe is me on a New Haven train 1999-2000-2002
Woe is me under ash mountains, alone meditating on nastolgic Rosie.
This is really very silly. Poetry and all.
Oh please show me love, plead poets-poor pondering potatoes,
nowhere and nothing. Please tell me the point, they say.
Did I choose the right word?
What will bring me to tears?
You mean I had it all along?
Let’s criticize the Government <better clean up that sentence.
Proper syntax to me is the greatest of entertainment.
I think I’ll drink some wine, and turn on the stereo, nosebleed.

Why can’t I achieve the perfect orgasm?
I’m really sure you would love
to love how much I love your beautiful hair,
and strange eyes, polished nose
like a stone.
Did I forget my car keys? shit!
Gotta cigarette? I should really quit.
Let’s talk about reality,
I think it’s a stage, It’s very important.
I think it dosen’t exist.
I think we shouldn’t go on following each other.
What else can we do?
Good point......McDonald’s it is.
Well I do like book stores,
midnight cafes, and majestic mountains.

Let’s sing a song, let’s sing about
traveling and love, make it an old blues song.
Coyotes howling in the background.
Shall we drink more wine?
Yes, and let’s build a fire.
Who’s going to understand this poem?
I don’t know....raise your hand.

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Vanishing

Post by Cagesong » Wed Mar 06, 2002 7:03 pm

<a name="#eight"> Vanishing </a>

In pleasure’s crescent waves
there is nothing but childhood,
drenched beyond the sea
pouring drinks with the clean cool wind
sledding on neighboring hills
as if someone pulls down a shade.

she will search forever in the bottom of a
tired sunbeam
gesturing to a fuzzy kitten
recoil under a sheet
plagued by scars of boy.
confused by definition in decline.

Has she found the ocean?
New home in seashells,
heart full of holes, moth-bitten.
Or does she dance now with age,
A Stock Broker? no, I don’t think so.
Vanishing.

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Cognitive Disonance

Post by Cagesong » Thu Mar 07, 2002 4:34 pm

<a name="#nine"> Cognitive Disonance </a>

Nothing much really.
I’m sitting in front of my computer screen,
busy day of volunteer work,
still capitivated, reshearching love
in books, on the internet.
Varied results, I need a portfolio.
I’m really begining to love poetry,
think about it in every action.
What are the possibilities.
Set high standards, I must.
What am I looking for?
More than anyone can offer.
Well, I’m happy at least.
Haven’t been angry in sometime.
Looking to go to school, educate myself to
create love virus, my one and only project.
I am waiting to pick up my friend in Brattleboro.
Maybe rent a movie, thought I’m pretty disenchanted
with that world.
Thinking about heading to New Mexico,
within the next year. Try to make a living
doing nothing, inspiring people to
inspire themselves. Hopefully abondon
the internet forever.

Enjoying sanity.....no longer obsessed with....

Oh what am I talking about?
She moved like consant curtsies,
tongue dancing in the food of air.
Sun upon her eyes, just right.
Her eyes, nothing more, her eyes.
In delicous oblivian, full, driving me always
to be mystery, when pratical we slept
when mysterious, we didn’t exist
except to the forbidden realms of love,
acres from time, following animal tracks.

“When the light is green we’ll follow.”
All the way to St. Marks, music dances erratic.
Funny stage, tampered with by witch’s watching.
Spit in the eyes of.....life.
Back we traveled, dirty laundry permeated roses.
Ohhh....on the same wave....to be cool, in slanted shoes.
And while listening, the police pulled through
we moved, and moved, in livid light.

And now? She dreams with Avi and Alistair
In New York City. Jacob and Billy in California
boasting brighter tears to live with other poets.
While Chuck and Skye leave for New Mexico,
leaving Joel and I to sit on old wood public bench
commenting like old men, on how things change, old thoughts
endeavor new memories to create a biography, appealing.

Joel and I to wonder where we have been,
all this time, to wonder in the conservative
pace of angry age. Joel to play guitar, rings
sublime to my ears alone, to cry on, to cry on.
To imagine not being here where all is already
layed out like manuals on how to run your.....life. (Oh well) live.

Trying to forget her like countless
other am not able.
To think I was different,
but no, I am just a poet.

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Pursuit

Post by Cagesong » Sun Mar 10, 2002 4:22 pm

<a name="#ten"> Pursuit </a>

Not really sure how I feel posting this....


At times I feel like pursuing,
something, like just to fit in
or something. It’s very strange.
Like soul or whatever.
Like to pretend I’m not content already,
I pursue contentedness.
But really, I can’t help feeling alright already.
Ain’t nothing I really want, ‘aside from company.
This is the lonliness of contentedness.
Just don’t wanna be alone.
Alright?

-cagesong.

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Cagesong
Clearwater Poet
Posts: 14
Joined: Tue Feb 19, 2002 12:01 am

Cagesong

Post by Cagesong » Sun Mar 10, 2002 5:21 pm

<a name="#eleven"> Old Poem, Sorry </a>

The wind is really roaring,
nothing to my soul, which is
angry, wanting food and purpose.
Having trouble visualizing place.
Having my visions unprotected,
vulnerable again, unanswered.
un. under terribley unpredictable weather.
I am in Northampton, Vegetarian Restuaruant.
Binded in unterrible satisfaction,
organic, listed off her finger
in a Democratic day under clear
cocaine sky, well outside at least.
concretley staring beyond and
above her , looking to ignore
my ignorance. Beatiful dreads flow
out of her head, inspired just to be
breathing, sharing cigarettes untimely
lost in poverty, and everlasting pubery.
Sarcastic imagination is what this town offers.
Imagine we are exploding on a ship.
Walking pirate streets towards salvation,
ringing in ears, headphones covering
like hiding treasure.

I am looking for Sarah Schmitty,
lost otherwise, pleasently breathing
ribbon dance on ankles, oily.
Smoke allows incarnite pragmatism,
and nothing but,
nothing but entails
intimate interior pianos, tea itch
ice cream, Harold’s, ditch de la Oxford ED.
across go to retrace hotel, sink in, dig deep ditch
of violin

and with a vine wrapped around,
tried to make sense of it in a short story,
revisit soon, to pirate the entire historic concept,
James Joyce attire,
enivatable electric current, futures
enept, intanjable same as a Guru.

Transcribe.
Carroling through the ages with
gunracks on their heads, hands
clasped in articulate wilderness
they sought coincidence and found
the rest of a light, the rest of it flowing
and rocking a shadow valley serrenade,
else in the scarves of winter, they deprogrammed
the finger on the trigger. I don’t take sips.
Swish, we walking on snow.
We are not entirley we.
Not really. Oh how ‘bout the plague
Fancy meeting you here!
Dynamite. Expert puberty. Engaged singular
elastic illusion. Orbits glowingly
Your-guide montage....fabric derides the miracle men.
Where as miracles are delivered chronologically
I am pissing on my leg....ooops.

To many carpenters, not enough roof beams.

Ramble, that’s the way you do it,
discount stores suck McEmbankments.
All add up to it all.
“Stop making sense.” -Talking Heads
I guess.
What’s another penny?
How are you? Still a carpet of words? ugly
painkillers, streaking tan.

Tanjable relaxing memory, muscles flexing
termites till dawn. Oily finger fade no longer
in cages, Death to all that is forcast, formatted
at least to lament your fine lick instruements, candy?
cold.cobbled.back to pirates.back into gentle dreamy.
I’m talking about marijuana. back after physics learn to practice.
Be tree, true.truency.
List your backwords, pleading plause of chandeleers
this is not bad.

Words devour mystic millions
of girls, I’m looking for a girl!
In the future of art. Her name is Sarah.
Brian: What are we? Just like old men?
Joel: Sitting on a bench, rambling, years of it.
Brian: Yes, by the grocery store, old women exits like a fish.
Joel: Eyes on either side of the head, the imitations for humans call it fish-eye lenses and such.

Oddly enough they have places to go,
shoulders to tap on the back.
Nightime is framed, little of the brain, title of the poem, moreover
delicious flossing his girl.
Sun dips down to rain handicapped delight.
Sold to minors.
All sales final, older to speak enigmas in the
intoxication brown frame black.
Let’s kayak through time.

I sneak a look under the conyer belt
and start falling, we plummit,
and explain ourselves under
purposeless skies.
Oh dear help me see beyond midnight.
Can’t see it but if you squeeze your eyes shut and press them with your thumb until it seems they’ll pop, you might see it approaching, or it could just be her toenail in the towels of Society’s slime.

I finished Hesse’s Demian.
and found her in a store called
Hesse’s express, ironic
“Hey you with the face,” Sarah says
I am in love.

(August, 2001)

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GoddessErika
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Post by GoddessErika » Sun Aug 14, 2005 10:18 pm

<center>Edit complete 8/14/2005 ~GoddessErika</center>

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heinzs
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Post by heinzs » Sun Aug 14, 2005 11:25 pm

Thank you Erika.

This archive reparesents all of the works of cagesong that are extant on the Poetry Pages.

HeinzS
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heinzs
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Tag line: Do no harm
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Post by heinzs » Sat Apr 21, 2007 5:17 pm

alphabetizing
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