Sunday, August 24, 2014

A Readable Poem: ferelea 700, v. 9

A Readable Poem: ferelea 700, version 8.2

A Readable Poem: ferelea 700, versions 5 thru 8.1







A Readable Poem: ferelea 700, versions 1 thru 4







A Readable Poem: ferelea 700, v. 0 (text)

ferelea 700
nalangua not
matrixes cohera
thirty-six profolu
rurothe ptc
incesing necrologi
lyiningd molds
urevedit basis
olfils receives
ients Conithin
inviting badmin

Friday, August 15, 2014

Four attempts to map hypergraphic hemispheres

Last day of summer


Sunday, August 17, will be the last day of summer repeats at Geranium Lake Properties. Tuesday, August 19, I will begin posting new panels of GLP regularly. The expected schedule will be every Tuesday and Thursday for new cartoons. On Sunday, but not every Sunday, I will continue with my favorites of previously posted GLP panels.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

This could be your name, no. 105

This could be your name, no. 104

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Vispo at Coldfront Magazine


I have five pieces of visual poetry at Coldfront Magazine.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Kneeling on the violet earth

lcmt

If you had told me a year ago,
that my pair of yellow hands
would be lost, that my purple
and my white would be painted
into cropped pointy squares linked
by cutting-edge ambiance, fluted
between literary places, warped
with imaginary edges, bloated,
blistered, I would have known
what to look for.

I could have found iron antiquity
in broad-blown vessels glazed
to the brim with discoveries,
variables falsified and cracked
by fire. Or holiday corpses,
caged roosters, a solitary
living man in a black suit,
in a black house where
polar-blue light hung heavy
in north-south crosswires,
crowded with faint shapes
that might be dorsal fins,
broken oars, opuntia cacti.
I could have gathered
shining, sparkling, splendid
equidimensional particles,
taking them up,
throwing them out,
all the oxygen we could eat,
filling the blood orange chambers
of our jack-o-lantern hearts.

I could have exceeded your sway,
escaped your bygones, wrapped
your sabotage and subsequent
afterbirth in napkins tied
with shop cord and my last
undissolved sinew.

But you knew it all.
You knew
how to cross the equators,
you knew
what came after nothing,
you knew
this was our final year.
You were the only one
waiting to burn.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Geranium Lake Properties, the Opera

You can catch up on all the entries for The Blues, an Asemic Opera, appearing in my GLP cartoon. I think we are about two-thirds of the way through the whole thing.

This is not part of the opera, this is "Sky Rim Fire Mandala", part of the "Waking dreams of earth and air" series.


© 2014 lcmt

Mercury

I am taking long drives now, for the grace of it, because the local landscape is now at its most beautiful. The grass has all dried, the last vestige of green is gone, and in its place is a color you can call tawny or blond or gold, but it's an amazing color when endless acres of rolling hills are cloaked in it. All made even more vivid by its contrast with the dark green of chaparral, and coast live oaks casting their inky shadows under the saturated California light. The patterns of dark and gold, the shapes of hills like sleepers under blankets (exactly like shapes beloved by Georgia O'Keeffe in New Mexico), the line of demarcation between the hills and sky, are in a poem that's been making itself, over and over, long before human eyes ever beheld it.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Ten Burros album cover




Ten Burros, Pray for Rain, 1977. Album cover, back, and sleeve for vinyl record.

Ten Burros album cover


Ten Burros, Pray for Rain, 1977. Album cover, front.

Gesture


© 2014 lcmt

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Time Forgot Everything Wanted


© 2014 lcmt

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Andy Goldsworthy and Me


© 2014 lcmt

Andy Goldsworthy has been hanging around a little more than usual lately. He finally took definite shape this morning at 3 am, and we made a collaboration for my April Fool's Day Postcard. I sent it off to the printer, but it won't be done for at least five days. And then it will probably take another week for me to mail it out.

Who wants one?

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Sneak preview of a future GLP post





You can follow GLP at its own blog.

© 2014 lcmt

Tha Hough Them Alt, two versions




© 2014 lcmt

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Oh, what the hell, let's begin a novel today

This villain loves fertilizer, also known as bullshit, and forgets nothing demoniac, despite the melting of the polar ice, the retreat of glaciers, the rising waterlines, the disappearing coastlines. There is always something he can inhale from the unlifelike exxers to remind him of swagged crescents, begirded scimitars, sallying buzzards and brindled dogs gaunt as revenants. He can adopt nirvana instantly, with sticks of larkspur burning, mantras blabbing, Gaian oracles snoring through the twang of descants rephrased.

While this villain is jailed in a borrowed manor house of the paralyzers, he overhears cowbirds gleaning through the carbonation of inconsistent lagers, chattering about the upcoming exportation of hard utensils: dung swords, butterfly pans and waspish crankshafts. All now glimmering in the unclosed orchard, unused, unguarded, upturned in the ungrazed alfalfa. Separated from this villain's cloister by nothing more than evaluation, clarity and a few attenuated mortices. This villain, this adept reprobate, exploits a luckily overlooked defect in the paralyzers' homestead, skulks and slips through the residence to his detachment. Deftly adrift in the orchard, upwind, he spiffily arms himself from waders to hairline with cruel strikers and direful knockouts.

This villain's honest name is Ecikez, but others know him as Shellbark, Dicken, Planchet. Here among all this americana we can call him Jimker Pluto Gammon. Are you a paralyzer, cowbird, nonunified dotherd, hafting exporter, shariff of vios, leaching counselor, knickknack mobster or beproblish coiner? No? Then he is no villain to you.

His milieu is a ready and cunning haziness, his tender complexities were long ago shed in borders of extant wood, in springs of tumult. He has a saffron grandeur for your spunkier barmaids, for goblin vulvae, for fourth-spawned perjurors. He is fond of cheroots, lice-free tamales, pink chablis. All his anchorages soon become enwreathed with disasters, some trifling, some aggressive, some immovable. He compensates with a migratory buoyancy.

© 2014 lcmt

Monday, October 14, 2013

Third poem received from Mars

Poem received from Mars

lcmt

weekthat
yes Mars tin ice
211L

liberality 1985
muchness 1913 LV
apt 1 cuz 15 etch