A lamppost named Mark pt: II.

May 16th, 2017

read full Lamppost Poem, in order

 

II.

“You’ll never catch me alive, coppers,”

a composite ill-suited to this serial town,

the Lamppost hobbled to the crossroads

and held out his thumb to flag the hovering night-train.

How much time,

how much one-eyed time.

 

On the darkest of nights as the moon first waxed,

the Lamppost could not see the man wearing all black.

With a rose et al. law-stick, the lamppost’s arms froze to the crosswalk

— the poor, poor, half-blind lamppost,

you know he was born with only

how much time.

 

And that was the end.

 

—Unless I’ve misremembered,

which happens now and then.

 

 

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A lamppost named Mark

May 10th, 2017

I.

“How much time passes

in the blinking of an eye?”

Said the half-blind,

one-eyed lamppost.

 

“How much time passes

in the blinking of an eye.”

Said the half-blind,

one-eyed lamppost.

 

I’ll get a day older

till the day I die,

scribble, scribble,

then kick-fade to black.

 

You know by the Sun and you know by the Earth,

by the nights ten, by the odd then the even,

by the lamppost factory near the heart of the city.

Where, long ago, not far from here,

I recall the beginning.

How much time passes,

from then till now,

in the blinking of an eye.

 

A serial number welded to our hero’s skin,

that is how our stories begin.

 

II.

“You’ll never catch me alive, coppers,”

a composite ill-suited to this serial town,

the Lamppost hobbled to the crossroads

and held out his thumb to flag the hovering night-train.

How much time,

how much one-eyed time.

 

On the darkest of nights as the moon first waxed,

the Lamppost could not see the man wearing all black.

With a rose et al. law-stick, the lamppost’s arms froze to the crosswalk

— the poor, poor, half-blind lamppost,

you know he was born with only

how much time.

 

And that was the end.

 

—Unless I’ve misremembered,

which happens now and then.

 

III.

You know, perhaps—

perhaps you know—

there are so many lampposts…

One hero must have caught that hovering train,

escaped his fate, so late, so late,

at night, at night, at night.

 

On a dark speeding train, our hero, waiting,

watching lights cast shadows,

“Where to, Mr.?”

“The only place I ever go

no matter where I am,

elsewhere.

 

“Like beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

Or consciousness evoking this sweet lie,”

The Lamppost, half-blind, asked the starry sky,

“The blinking of my eye does pass the time?”

 

Now on that train I cautiously awake,

don’t give the dream time to evaporate,

pick up my pen, scribble Defenestrate.

I smile, then laugh, and wakefulness forsake.

 

My lamppost hero journeyed cross the sands—

Deserted desert cut by canyon ridge—

He dangerously danced along the edge.

This precipice cannot be crossed by man.

 

“Unless the time that travels makes me man,

enough to see the cliffs become the sand.”

 

O.

Sideways eights,

upside down sevens,

forward arrows,

evolutionary rocks:

perhaps the lamppost’s name

was Mark.

But many that are first shall be last;

and the last first.

 

(concerning the dark,

the other end of the tunnel…

Long ago on the Isle of Mann

rising above the Irish Sea—

refusing the yellow rose, my hand,

Anna turned her shoulder on me.

Now as I swim I dream of land,

sifting from darkest depths of memory.

Read one more chapter if you can—

you’ll hear more of the Lamppost story:)

 

I.

Lamppost lost in vast shadowy elsewhere,

turns down a shallow, unknowable road,

where names cost a smile, a drink buys a kiss,

and lights turn on only in

darkness.

How many eyes pass, from then until now,

in the blinking of a time.

 

“Why, hello, pretty Signpost.

You must have a name as warm as your face.

Say again, Signpost? 

  You haven’t a voice?

Then lovely Signpost, Signpost love,

let me communicate love with a kiss. 

But what do I see?  No lips for a kiss?

Then Signpost of beauty,

Signpost of grace,

let us gaze through failing vision,

for in eyes we have infinite space.

You haven’t even a single eye?”

Serial composition cursed whom?

 

Born half-blind, with two good legs, illuminating

the darkness wherever he wanders,

One shadow of light against the dark, casting

shadows of dark against the light.

 

So every moon rise recalls the orchid eyes

of the beautiful Anna Signpost;

and every midnight hour, soaked in star showers,

deeper wades the luminous Lamppost;

till deep in his dreams, where a sea of sand gleams,

she speaks to him, speaks to him, volumes and reams,

in his dreams by the sandy sea—

in his solitude down by the sea.

 

II.

Anna Signpost, famous clairvoyant, an Isle of Mann, none the less,

knew just the right place to wait for the right time.

When finally she spoke—with two good hands and a wicked pack of smokes

and no regard for rhythm, reason or rhyme:—

“We modern Gods redeem,

our holy sky, explosive sheen,

with poetry and narrative dreams.

“Eleven, thirty-two, both minus one;

Jai-alai bottle of visible ink.

I’ve heard the old song, how Finnegan wakes—

Rose et al. stone throw through.

“See how they fall?  See how they rise and fall?

opposing end to opposing end—endlessly sine curving:

Lamppost and window; populist and poet;

the odd then the even; the sledgehammer and the swan.”

“But cannot I form? Cannot I create?

another world, another verse

to overbear and crumble this to naught?”

“Throughout it all you must have forgot

that riddle, riddle, then kick-fade to black.”

“But where do we stand?

On what mountain plant our feet,

so to yell at the sky?”

“Socratic Mark, don’t dim, don’t dim,

emphatic barks of lyrical sin—

revel, revolve, revolution.

Berlin Walls, Jerusalem Gates,

depleted Plutonium concentrate—

revel, dissolve, revolution.

Window open to elsewheres unknown,

meditate on a balcony prayer throne—

revel, revolve, evolution.

“That mountain’s named Populism.”

 

III.

“If time-space’s the Atlas, is death the last pain?

Will bright lights ever shine on Earth again?

O, bid me leap, from off the battlements of any tower.”

The lamppost, dreaming,

jumps through the window, experiencing

weightlessness

for very first time,

L-7 L-7

  L-7

      L-7

        L-7

  L-7

  L-7

Placebo of poison, distilling liquor vile;

only a gun that fired a flag;

a tessellating rose;

no serial number, no code of bars.

He swan dove

in the unknown.

How much time, 

how much one-eyed time.

 

OO.

The Beginning:

NOTES to Lamppost Poem: 

Muhammad the Prophet, Sura 87;

Shakespeare, William, Sonnet 106;

The King James Bible, Gospel of Mark, 10:31;

Poe, Edger Allen, Annabelle Lee;

Elliot, T.S., the Wasteland;

Keats, John, Hyperion a fragment;

Shakespeare, William, Romeo and Juliet;

Bugs Bunny, Tex Avery, creator.

 

A defense of the Lamppost Poem

Meaning is no Modern or Post-modern sentiment.  That everything will make sense when thought about did not feature in these eras of literature.  One reading of the Wasteland, and the Cantos of Ezra Pound, they give promises of overarching, underlying meaning, that ultimately dissolve.  Since Derrida, even language itself, and all built with language, is meaningless.

However, if one believes theorists such as Lennard Davis or Jeffery Nealon, then we have moved past Post-modernism. I have argued the name for this new artistic era needs keep the Post and ditch the Modern: Post-humanism?— really not as depressing as first glance at the theory may suggest.  This new era need develop some new aesthetic values: brand new, not reactionary; not the flip-side of Post-modernism; not a reversion to pre-Enlightenment moralities.

Since the mid-nineteen-nineties, applied mathematics suggests there is some degree of knowability to the universe; I happen to believe we will grow asymptotically closer to a unified theory of everything— hey, I’m an optimist.  But whether or not we ever come any closer to understanding the universe, at this moment in history, we believe it may be possible.  What a break with the traditions of Modernism and Post-modernism: Meaning.  Hence, the Lamppost poem.

I view A lamppost named Mark as a sine curve.  I filled the second part II. with as many meanings as possible: from numbers that reference, to Disability Studies, to importance in who speaks what, to escaping death.  Both part III.s ask questions I consider elemental to existence.  As for the significance of the window, well, it always stands for something more and different, but at this historical moment, the window is Post-post-modernism and our new century.

 

 

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Summer Schedule, 2017

May 1st, 2017

Welcome to defenestrationism reality.

 

Posting Schedule, Summer, 2017:

 

May 7th- July 2nd–

A lamppost named Mark

by Paul-Newell Reaves

in 8 pt.s, plus a defense of the Lamppost Poem

 

July 3rd- Sept. 4th–

Fifth annual

defenestrationism.net

!Short Story Contest!

this is not subtle contest; this is a contest of sudden change.

Submissions accepted until June 15th.

 

Thank you for your interest in defenestrationism.net .  Surf our exciting content, such as Complex Fairy Tales , from our retro Navigation Panel to the left.

 

Contest guidelines

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Judges confirmed for 2017 !Short Story Contest!

April 10th, 2017

Welcome to defenstrationism reality.

 

We are honored that our four returning judges have confirmed their availability for our 2017 !Short Story Contest! panel.

 

Submissions are rolling in, and the competition is already fierce.  Once finalists are chosen, we publish one story a week, then open the polls to fan voting for at least two weeks; this counts as an additional judge vote.  Judges cast their votes by Labor Day weekend, US, and winners are announced Labor Day Monday, US.

 

Meet Judges Christian, Moet, Glenn, and Suvi, here.

Guidelines for our !Short Story Contest!

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Hazy Arizona Sky

April 2nd, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

Midnight,

Sonoran Desert,

sleep, baby talk, dust covering my eyelids.

No need for covers, blankets,

sunscreen, sand is my pillow.

Adaptations

morning fireball

hurls into Arizona sky,

survival shifts gears,

momentum becomes a racecar driver

baking down on cracked,

crusted earth-

makes Prickly Pear cactus

open to visitors just a mirage,

cactus naked spit and slice

rubbery skull, glut open

dreams, flood dry.

Western cowboy wishes, whistles, and movies

valley one cup of cool, clear, fool’s desert gold

dust refreshing poison of the valley.

Bring desert sunflowers, sand dunes, bandanas,

leave your cell phone at home.

 

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Solo Boxing

March 26th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

Solo boxing, past midnight,

tugging emotions out of memories embedded,

tossing dice, reliving vices, revisiting affairs,

playing solitaire-marathon night,

hopscotch player, toss the rock,

shots of Bourbon.

 

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Little Desert Flower

March 19th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson 

 

Out of this poem

grows a little desert flower.

it is blue sorrow

it waits for your return.

You escape so you must from me

refuge, folded, wrapped in cool spring rain leaves-

avoiding July, August heat.

South wind hell-fire burns memories within you,

branded I tattoo you, leave my mark,

in rose barren fields fueled with burned and desert stubble.

Yet I wait here, a loyal believer throat raw in thirst.

I wrest thunder gods gathering ritual-prayer rain.

It is lonely here grit, tears rub my eyes without relief.

Yet I catch myself loafing away in the wind waiting fate

to whisper those tiny messages

writer of this storm welded wings,

I go unnoticed but the burned eyes of red-tailed hawk

pinch of hope, sheltered by the doves.

I tip a toast to quench your thirst,

one shot of Tequila my little, purple, desert flower.

 

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Alberta Bound

March 13th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

I own a gate to this prairie

that ends facing the Rocky Mountains.

They call it Alberta

trail of endless blue sky

asylum of endless winters,

hermitage of indolent retracted sun.

Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring.

Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones,

ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools.

Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles.

Travel weary I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines.

In harmony North to South

Gordon Lightfoot pitches out

a tone

“Alberta Bound.”

With independence in my veins,

I am long way from my home.

 

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Lion in my Heart

March 9th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion, I swear.

I eat leaves and underbrush, foliage of the forest, I belch.

Then I fall in love with birds, strangers and wild women.

Tears fall into the lush forest green below,

like Chinese crystal glass beads, shatter.

Then I realize it’s not the jungle, but I that am alone.

In the morning when the bed squeaks, both alarm clocks erupt,

I realize I’m alone in my jungle.

I hear the calls of the wild-

the streetcars, and the metro trains,

wake me in my sleep in my jungle alone,

let me belch in my belly with my Tums,

let me dream in my aloneness I swell.

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion,

I swear jungle man, lion lover, and city dweller.

 

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White Clouds of Elation

January 29th, 2017

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon.

White Clouds of Elation

Sneezing
out oxy
first thing
in the
morning

Walking
through a
white cloud
of elation

Climbing
the stairs
avoiding
the steps

Only a
follower
would
submit
to a
program

I’m making
progress
one day at
a time

All my faith
is consolidated
into a single
phone call

I often wonder
how the other
side lives

Able to accept
all the things
that drive
people to
madness

This renegade
is still free
to walk these
streets of
disease
without the
threat of
infection

This straw
is my sword

This bottle
my shield

Together we’ll
fight off the
contamination
of societal
madness

 

 

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