Thursday, June 11, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Untitled
crippled wings blister with want
as the storm, she cries, the storm is
winding up for the power pry
tremulous struggle, burden of time
can't you see that numbers fall flat
against the enormity of the light
or a child's broken paw, the kind of
right that you'd turn all left to say
you had, to say you could have ripped
Prometheus from his post while his
eyes, repeatedly plucked from his skull,
see nothing and all at once, just to watch
him cascade from the precipice
Bartholomew Dougherty, 2009
as the storm, she cries, the storm is
winding up for the power pry
tremulous struggle, burden of time
can't you see that numbers fall flat
against the enormity of the light
or a child's broken paw, the kind of
right that you'd turn all left to say
you had, to say you could have ripped
Prometheus from his post while his
eyes, repeatedly plucked from his skull,
see nothing and all at once, just to watch
him cascade from the precipice
Bartholomew Dougherty, 2009
death of a poppet
Satellite image of people lined up to view Pope John Paul II’s body, St. Peter’s Basilica, April 5, 2005.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
a blip on the radar
The New York Times presents a look into the future. And the future, needles to say, involves flying saucers.
A New York Times article that might interest you.
A New York Times article that might interest you.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
No Kidding
İstanbul / Kumburgaz UFO's and ALIENS ARE BACK in 2008! from fox mulder on Vimeo.
Broadcast in Turkey as well as Australia. Not to mention the governments of Mexico, Brazil, England, and Denmark have all disclosed their previously classified UFO documents.
If you don't buy it now, it'll cost you more later.
Australian News Source of Repute
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
On the nature of dreams
All men dream: but not equally.
Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds
wake in the day to find that it was vanity:
but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men,
for they may act their dream with open eyes to make it possible.
T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia)
from Seven Pillars of Wisdom
Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds
wake in the day to find that it was vanity:
but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men,
for they may act their dream with open eyes to make it possible.
T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia)
from Seven Pillars of Wisdom
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sin Nombre
Untitled
The precision of dawn, a brow of white stone
the color of autonomy, the price of your hand
the price of any gaze to be shot stark from nothing
strings tuning themselves to willowy trumpets
wringing feathers with fingers, the snapping of necks
along the aluminum lines of your expert mouth
hung open
a lesson, a line, the number of faces beneath your own
billowing girdle, lattice of flesh, steady thrumming of
light beneath that plate, beneath that glowing disc
you will find the soul
Untitled (Unfinished Sestina)
My uncle signed his name in night
hued ink, a song to sing, he’d say
the face you assume when your
bones have turned to wayward dust
when the cries of the loon can no
longer be heard, the resigned day
rolling from its shoulders, the day
that is swallowed by night,
a cloak of sidereal blue no
closer to Him than, say,
these petals of pale coral dust,
these spokes of time your
ancestors quietly wheeled, your
heavily shadowed frame by day
adorned in wool, tawdry dust
rising from cracked lips as falling night
deals a blow to the disc they say
burns for Him and not one man; no
shepherd, beggar, virgin, no
ascetic lying prostrate while your
candle burns without purpose, while you say,
and make to repeat, ‘this and every day
serves as the venue for His arrival, this night
draws the curtains on His stage’ but dust
borne of fervor and stately conviction, dust
stacked upon your broken back, your beaten breasts,
is taken with the wind as feathers of kings
Bartholomew Dougherty, 2008/9
The precision of dawn, a brow of white stone
the color of autonomy, the price of your hand
the price of any gaze to be shot stark from nothing
strings tuning themselves to willowy trumpets
wringing feathers with fingers, the snapping of necks
along the aluminum lines of your expert mouth
hung open
a lesson, a line, the number of faces beneath your own
billowing girdle, lattice of flesh, steady thrumming of
light beneath that plate, beneath that glowing disc
you will find the soul
Untitled (Unfinished Sestina)
My uncle signed his name in night
hued ink, a song to sing, he’d say
the face you assume when your
bones have turned to wayward dust
when the cries of the loon can no
longer be heard, the resigned day
rolling from its shoulders, the day
that is swallowed by night,
a cloak of sidereal blue no
closer to Him than, say,
these petals of pale coral dust,
these spokes of time your
ancestors quietly wheeled, your
heavily shadowed frame by day
adorned in wool, tawdry dust
rising from cracked lips as falling night
deals a blow to the disc they say
burns for Him and not one man; no
shepherd, beggar, virgin, no
ascetic lying prostrate while your
candle burns without purpose, while you say,
and make to repeat, ‘this and every day
serves as the venue for His arrival, this night
draws the curtains on His stage’ but dust
borne of fervor and stately conviction, dust
stacked upon your broken back, your beaten breasts,
is taken with the wind as feathers of kings
Bartholomew Dougherty, 2008/9
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
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