There pops the shell, it disappeared over night. I think the wind turned it to a liquid that now lightly lines my sidewalk. I walk over it daily, but the delicacy is gone. Now it is the same impermanent hard stuff that I can use and use over again.
This tool is a stem
Plucked straight to its
Death
And placed kindly in
Your hand
Do you like
Your dead
If it has petals? Is the dead
A beauty
When you cannot touch
The pain
It feels from infinite thirst
While you remain
Mostly water
Standing under a winning heat?
Traveling while their backs are turned. I’m just talking about some rail guards who have their own daydreams going blank against the tv screen. No more thinking about thinking and all the thoughts one thought to have. They die inside the creation of a million thoughts focusing on
Nothing
No commentary bubbles
No tiny stone under my fingernails
It’s sand that falls from
Between the cracks of what I hold and what you once held
We can’t have the same and the same time
I can breathe the boundary between us as I remain a pretense until I become
A tool
That is a dead thing
For the next to rise and conquer
A stepping stone
For yesterday’s pyramid
Or a copper plate on an old lady’s neck.
I want to turn into oil
Running thick on the minds of nations who want me to remain where I really belong
Back into the muck
Of the land
Hardening into millennia long strands of interwoven pressure
Friday, July 27, 2007
.....WAIT...w...a...it...
Tremendous scattering of the tiny reflects oil in the dust. There are no branches to intertwine, no vines to birth the soma elixir coaxing my throat to forget all the outside so as to focus on the inside wanting to transcend back out to the outside always there. Transcendence is a bitch in heat waiting for the noon sun to set and her tail to stop wagging at the gloriousness of the day. It takes too much and leaves only scraps behind suitable for minions in a web complex enough to have minions and pawns, ingloriously for the rise of glory. To get to the top step a high heeled broken ankle must find the golden duck tape and piece it all back together again. If gravity would bend for a moment in time, take a rainbow and make it a black frown, then subjectivity could reign supreme and we could pretend that opposites are detachable so as to enjoy the false extreme. Fingers are going backwards into their sockets, they care not for awkward landings on strangers’ shoulders that want strangers’ fingers one day and smack them with the fly swatter the next. A prayer to indecisiveness accumulates as a cloud rising straight up just to fall back down into the piss pool gathering underneath the leg of a scared child trying to think, trying not to think, of next.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Jim Cohn excerpt
...taken from "Treasures for Heaven"
XXXII
The smell
Of burning tires
Comes through the window
Near the bodies
Roped in moonbeams
Of unity
Where they were separated
From time––often & without fail.
XXXII
The smell
Of burning tires
Comes through the window
Near the bodies
Roped in moonbeams
Of unity
Where they were separated
From time––often & without fail.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Society for Humanistic Judaism
July 25, 2007
Sherwin Wine, 79, Founder of Splinter Judaism Group, Dies
By DENNIS HEVESI
Rabbi Sherwin T. Wine, founder of a movement in Judaism that says there is no reason to believe in God but that the religion’s highest ethical traditions and the value of each person should be revered, died on Saturday in Essaouira, Morocco.
He was 79 and lived in Birmingham, Mich.
Rabbi Wine was killed in a car accident while on vacation with his companion, Richard McMains, said Rabbi Miriam Jerris, president of the Association of Humanistic Rabbis. The association is an affiliate of the Society for Humanistic Judaism, which Rabbi Wine founded in 1969. Mr. McMains was injured in the accident.
Rabbi Wine started the Society for Humanistic Judaism six years after he sent ripples through the American Jewish community by urging eight families who were doubtful of their faith to join him in establishing the Birmingham Temple, in a Detroit suburb.
The congregation, now based in nearby Farmington Hills, eliminated the word “God” from its services. For example, “You shall love the Lord your God,” became, “We revere the best in man.” The congregation also stopped reciting the Shema, the basic Jewish proclamation of faith in the unity of God.
As word of his innovations spread, Rabbi Wine became controversial. He was castigated by other rabbis.
In 1965, he was the subject of articles in The New York Times and Time magazine.
“I find no adequate reason to accept the existence of a supreme person,” Rabbi Wine told Time.
In the interview with The Times, he said the existence of God required “empirical criteria.” As a substitute, Rabbi Wine preached “humanism,” describing it as a religion “because, like all other religions, it enables man to relate himself to his universe.”
He also emphasized ethical imperatives of Judaism.
Although the Society for Humanistic Judaism has 10,000 members in 30 congregations in the United States and Canada, its tenets are held, to varying degrees, by more Jews. According to the American Jewish Identity Survey of 2001 by the Center for Jewish Studies at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York, about half of the 5.3 million Jews in the United States identify themselves as “secular” or “somewhat secular.”
Sherwin Theodore Wine was born on Jan. 25, 1928, in Detroit, the son of immigrants from Poland, Herschel and Teibele Israelski Wengrowski. His father was a cap maker and trouser cutter.
Besides Mr. McMains, a sister, Lorraine Pivnick, of Farmington Hills, survives Rabbi Wine.
The rabbi came from a Conservative Jewish tradition. His parents kept a kosher home. He earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in philosophy at the University of Michigan and was ordained a Reform rabbi after graduating from Hebrew Union College in 1956.
By 1960, Rabbi Wine had founded a Reform congregation in Windsor, Ontario. After three years, he acknowledged his discomfort in addressing a God he was not sure existed and broke from Reform Judaism.
Part of his estrangement was rooted in the Holocaust. In an interview with The San Diego Jewish Journal, Rabbi Wine said, “The message of the Holocaust is that there isn’t any magic power.”
Sherwin Wine, 79, Founder of Splinter Judaism Group, Dies
By DENNIS HEVESI
Rabbi Sherwin T. Wine, founder of a movement in Judaism that says there is no reason to believe in God but that the religion’s highest ethical traditions and the value of each person should be revered, died on Saturday in Essaouira, Morocco.
He was 79 and lived in Birmingham, Mich.
Rabbi Wine was killed in a car accident while on vacation with his companion, Richard McMains, said Rabbi Miriam Jerris, president of the Association of Humanistic Rabbis. The association is an affiliate of the Society for Humanistic Judaism, which Rabbi Wine founded in 1969. Mr. McMains was injured in the accident.
Rabbi Wine started the Society for Humanistic Judaism six years after he sent ripples through the American Jewish community by urging eight families who were doubtful of their faith to join him in establishing the Birmingham Temple, in a Detroit suburb.
The congregation, now based in nearby Farmington Hills, eliminated the word “God” from its services. For example, “You shall love the Lord your God,” became, “We revere the best in man.” The congregation also stopped reciting the Shema, the basic Jewish proclamation of faith in the unity of God.
As word of his innovations spread, Rabbi Wine became controversial. He was castigated by other rabbis.
In 1965, he was the subject of articles in The New York Times and Time magazine.
“I find no adequate reason to accept the existence of a supreme person,” Rabbi Wine told Time.
In the interview with The Times, he said the existence of God required “empirical criteria.” As a substitute, Rabbi Wine preached “humanism,” describing it as a religion “because, like all other religions, it enables man to relate himself to his universe.”
He also emphasized ethical imperatives of Judaism.
Although the Society for Humanistic Judaism has 10,000 members in 30 congregations in the United States and Canada, its tenets are held, to varying degrees, by more Jews. According to the American Jewish Identity Survey of 2001 by the Center for Jewish Studies at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York, about half of the 5.3 million Jews in the United States identify themselves as “secular” or “somewhat secular.”
Sherwin Theodore Wine was born on Jan. 25, 1928, in Detroit, the son of immigrants from Poland, Herschel and Teibele Israelski Wengrowski. His father was a cap maker and trouser cutter.
Besides Mr. McMains, a sister, Lorraine Pivnick, of Farmington Hills, survives Rabbi Wine.
The rabbi came from a Conservative Jewish tradition. His parents kept a kosher home. He earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in philosophy at the University of Michigan and was ordained a Reform rabbi after graduating from Hebrew Union College in 1956.
By 1960, Rabbi Wine had founded a Reform congregation in Windsor, Ontario. After three years, he acknowledged his discomfort in addressing a God he was not sure existed and broke from Reform Judaism.
Part of his estrangement was rooted in the Holocaust. In an interview with The San Diego Jewish Journal, Rabbi Wine said, “The message of the Holocaust is that there isn’t any magic power.”
Monday, July 23, 2007
Decorative Art
Decorative art
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
Decorative metalwork designed in the Art Deco style by Maurice Ascalon and manufactured by the Pal-Bell Company during the 1940s.
The decorative arts are traditionally defined as ornamental and functional works in ceramic, wood, glass, metal, or textile. The field includes ceramics, furniture, furnishings, interior design, and architecture. The decorative arts are often categorized in opposition to the "fine arts", namely, painting, drawing, photography, and large-scale sculpture. Some distinguish between decorative and fine art based on functionality, intended purpose, importance, status as a unique creation, or single-artist production. Decorative arts, or furnishings, may be fixed (for example, wallpaper), or moveable (for example, lamps).
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
Decorative metalwork designed in the Art Deco style by Maurice Ascalon and manufactured by the Pal-Bell Company during the 1940s.
The decorative arts are traditionally defined as ornamental and functional works in ceramic, wood, glass, metal, or textile. The field includes ceramics, furniture, furnishings, interior design, and architecture. The decorative arts are often categorized in opposition to the "fine arts", namely, painting, drawing, photography, and large-scale sculpture. Some distinguish between decorative and fine art based on functionality, intended purpose, importance, status as a unique creation, or single-artist production. Decorative arts, or furnishings, may be fixed (for example, wallpaper), or moveable (for example, lamps).
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Instruments (Street Performer)
Singled out single thread
Note undulating
It has stopped
two doors after years of swinging
While no one noticed
While no one cared
Hesitant in the forced opening
Hinges easing into this decision
They wanted some open
They wanted wind too
Go through
Unimpeded, notes undulating, between new cracks feeling
Themselves
New on the line
Amicable to the old new white linear
Way of thinking
Leading music straight down for the outs
Exploring
Elegant refraction caused
By the
Brick causeways
Causing street lines
To deconstruct in ears
Note undulating
It has stopped
two doors after years of swinging
While no one noticed
While no one cared
Hesitant in the forced opening
Hinges easing into this decision
They wanted some open
They wanted wind too
Go through
Unimpeded, notes undulating, between new cracks feeling
Themselves
New on the line
Amicable to the old new white linear
Way of thinking
Leading music straight down for the outs
Exploring
Elegant refraction caused
By the
Brick causeways
Causing street lines
To deconstruct in ears
Monday, July 09, 2007
He knew that as soon as he turned that knob and opened the door it would all flood down. The lights would hit the streets and the sky would resemble an ocean. Already he could sense the abandonment, the escalated terror of drowning and breathlessness. Yet, he had to open that door. He didn’t expect anything dark and horrifying, only a torrent or a tsunami.
The knob was made from a dirty late 18th century brass. He couldn’t see it, but underneath a quarter inch of dirt there were decorative engravings. The knob might actually be quite elegant if given a proper cleaning. But all he could see were his imagination’s shadows projected onto a dimly lit door bound to unleash a storm. His hand encapsulated the entire knob and the sweat on his hands caused the dirty knob to shed its top layer. He didn’t notice. There was nothing to notice anyways, only the drag of anticipation holding him back like an anchor. Yet, after a quick twist of his right wrist he firmly pushed the door open with wide eyes.
The scene immediately contradicted his thoughts. There was very little to see, only pieces of crumpled paper occasionally covering an aspect of a dusty wooden floor. The nails on the floorboards protruded quite a bit and he nearly tripped on his first step. She was facing the far left corner while sitting on the floor. From her hunched over physique he could tell she was writing. He could also hear her delicate typing. She stopped as soon as she noticed a presence, but failed to turn around. She merely stopped as if to listen to a whispering one could scarcely hear.
Outside a lone dog was barking in the distance. The familiar smell of the restaurant downstairs emanated through both their windows. He stood there for about a minute just looking at her back, at her horrible typing posture. He tried to think of something to say, but really he hoped she would turn around and say something first. Even eye contact would help him find the words to help them progress to another and better place of mind, but nothing happened. She never resumed typing and hardly moved. Eventually, He retreated by taking the same path he used to advance and closed the door gently behind him. Who would want to ruin the moment of writing?
That’s precisely when the rain began. At first it was a drizzle that followed him as he walked from his room to his couch and back towards his room again. By the time he advanced towards the tan and stained couch for the second time the rain picked up its pace. Now whole droplets were falling from his head and little puddles were growing on the linoleum. He knew she’d get mad when she found the mess. He could hear her voice already:
What, you expect me to clean up after you? I’m not your mom. You’re
a man aren’t you? I work all day, why do I have to come home to
a dirty place? When I wash something it should at least be clean for me
when I use it! What do you expect? For me to constantly clean after you?
But he couldn’t help it and he didn’t truly care. He resented it. Of course he was a man! How could she say that? Doesn’t she know how much that hurts…what that means to a man to hear?
Soon it was pouring inside. He heard warnings for a flash flood and was told to take cover by strangers. Incase of lightening he should stay on dry land, but he didn’t want to. No, he demanded to stay immersed and to feel the coldness of the water on his skin. He lusted for the pain of skies to drench him so as to feel connected with his inability to connect.
After approximately ten minutes he grew cold and felt his hands shiver as he rubbed them over his legs. We sat cross legged on the floor in the midst of a quickly growing puddle of rain water. He cooled off and felt cold. From beneath her door he saw a light coming out. Was it sunny over there? Was it warm with clear skies? In this condition it was worth discovering the truth.
He slowly stood up and felt the quasi numbness of his legs and knees briefly paralyze his ascent. Thoroughly soaked, he trudged towards the door. Already he could feel a sort of warmness wafting from her door only 8 to 10 feet away. Nothing could keep him out, he felt assured that as soon as he crossed that threshold that his bones would warm and his shivers fall from him.
Now right outside her door, he could feel the heat. The light sneaking through the door cracks were brighter than he had originally realized. It was more than merely warm in there, it was hot. Why? He reached for the knob as it nearly burnt his hand, but braved the heat and turned.
It must have been 90 degrees in there. No, maybe even a hundred. The crumbled papers he previously saw upon her floor now appeared dry and thinned out. There was aridity to the room. Surprisingly she was still facing the corner. This time, however, she wasn’t typing and she wasn’t moving. Already the corners of his shirt and pants had begun to dry and he felt quite comfortable. In fact, although he hadn’t noticed, he stopped shivering while standing outside her door. His curiosity ultimately distracted him from his ice hard pain.
The wood panels this time appeared older and somewhat bleached out by the brightness of her room. He approached her while leaving a slight foot trail of water on his way. Seconds after stepping down each wet impression would evaporate back into the air.
When he touched her should she immediately turned around. Her face was slightly burnt from the sun and she couldn’t speak. The dryness of it all caused her to lose her voice, that is, her throat was far too dry. She looked weak…weak and reddish. Remembering the comparative cool wetness of his shirt, he dropped to his knees and pulled her in to cool her down. A moment later, he helped her to her feet so they could leave the room. She could hardly walk and depended upon him to keep her self firmly balanced.
The knob was made from a dirty late 18th century brass. He couldn’t see it, but underneath a quarter inch of dirt there were decorative engravings. The knob might actually be quite elegant if given a proper cleaning. But all he could see were his imagination’s shadows projected onto a dimly lit door bound to unleash a storm. His hand encapsulated the entire knob and the sweat on his hands caused the dirty knob to shed its top layer. He didn’t notice. There was nothing to notice anyways, only the drag of anticipation holding him back like an anchor. Yet, after a quick twist of his right wrist he firmly pushed the door open with wide eyes.
The scene immediately contradicted his thoughts. There was very little to see, only pieces of crumpled paper occasionally covering an aspect of a dusty wooden floor. The nails on the floorboards protruded quite a bit and he nearly tripped on his first step. She was facing the far left corner while sitting on the floor. From her hunched over physique he could tell she was writing. He could also hear her delicate typing. She stopped as soon as she noticed a presence, but failed to turn around. She merely stopped as if to listen to a whispering one could scarcely hear.
Outside a lone dog was barking in the distance. The familiar smell of the restaurant downstairs emanated through both their windows. He stood there for about a minute just looking at her back, at her horrible typing posture. He tried to think of something to say, but really he hoped she would turn around and say something first. Even eye contact would help him find the words to help them progress to another and better place of mind, but nothing happened. She never resumed typing and hardly moved. Eventually, He retreated by taking the same path he used to advance and closed the door gently behind him. Who would want to ruin the moment of writing?
That’s precisely when the rain began. At first it was a drizzle that followed him as he walked from his room to his couch and back towards his room again. By the time he advanced towards the tan and stained couch for the second time the rain picked up its pace. Now whole droplets were falling from his head and little puddles were growing on the linoleum. He knew she’d get mad when she found the mess. He could hear her voice already:
What, you expect me to clean up after you? I’m not your mom. You’re
a man aren’t you? I work all day, why do I have to come home to
a dirty place? When I wash something it should at least be clean for me
when I use it! What do you expect? For me to constantly clean after you?
But he couldn’t help it and he didn’t truly care. He resented it. Of course he was a man! How could she say that? Doesn’t she know how much that hurts…what that means to a man to hear?
Soon it was pouring inside. He heard warnings for a flash flood and was told to take cover by strangers. Incase of lightening he should stay on dry land, but he didn’t want to. No, he demanded to stay immersed and to feel the coldness of the water on his skin. He lusted for the pain of skies to drench him so as to feel connected with his inability to connect.
After approximately ten minutes he grew cold and felt his hands shiver as he rubbed them over his legs. We sat cross legged on the floor in the midst of a quickly growing puddle of rain water. He cooled off and felt cold. From beneath her door he saw a light coming out. Was it sunny over there? Was it warm with clear skies? In this condition it was worth discovering the truth.
He slowly stood up and felt the quasi numbness of his legs and knees briefly paralyze his ascent. Thoroughly soaked, he trudged towards the door. Already he could feel a sort of warmness wafting from her door only 8 to 10 feet away. Nothing could keep him out, he felt assured that as soon as he crossed that threshold that his bones would warm and his shivers fall from him.
Now right outside her door, he could feel the heat. The light sneaking through the door cracks were brighter than he had originally realized. It was more than merely warm in there, it was hot. Why? He reached for the knob as it nearly burnt his hand, but braved the heat and turned.
It must have been 90 degrees in there. No, maybe even a hundred. The crumbled papers he previously saw upon her floor now appeared dry and thinned out. There was aridity to the room. Surprisingly she was still facing the corner. This time, however, she wasn’t typing and she wasn’t moving. Already the corners of his shirt and pants had begun to dry and he felt quite comfortable. In fact, although he hadn’t noticed, he stopped shivering while standing outside her door. His curiosity ultimately distracted him from his ice hard pain.
The wood panels this time appeared older and somewhat bleached out by the brightness of her room. He approached her while leaving a slight foot trail of water on his way. Seconds after stepping down each wet impression would evaporate back into the air.
When he touched her should she immediately turned around. Her face was slightly burnt from the sun and she couldn’t speak. The dryness of it all caused her to lose her voice, that is, her throat was far too dry. She looked weak…weak and reddish. Remembering the comparative cool wetness of his shirt, he dropped to his knees and pulled her in to cool her down. A moment later, he helped her to her feet so they could leave the room. She could hardly walk and depended upon him to keep her self firmly balanced.
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