Sunday, December 07, 2014

...Trust The Night... Defense Of Poetic Commentary: Round II


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How is it allowed at all: this *thing* called "late night radio": programs we have beaming in... ...'fore Sol provokes his *day* again. Sure, it's proffered in the *dark*, when most are sleeping, minds in park... marshalling small energies to match their mainstream's tyrannies... though lately shows pervade the day awash with weirdness, one could say.  Now?  It's "dark" at any hour; at any hour you're empowered.
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See, a plethora of MP3s, in no way censored, charm and tease.  They are accessed any time, and accessed by inquiring minds.  These stimulate that challenge made upon our mainstreams put and paid... See, we need more to fuel us than what Church and State pretend and plan.
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So, many listen late at night to spite their days consumed by fright—days cheapened in the glare of that... well... distracting one from "where it's at"! "War"s and "cars" and football "games" (and Bill O'Reilly's murky claims...), bells and whistles; smoke and mirrors—mainstreams, plainly, nowhere near us!
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See, there is more than is "prime time", but cop to that? You might do time.
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You shall pay an unjust price if you discover "prime's" *device*, or find its *content* somewhat lacking or something more than just distracting!
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So, how do Bell and Birnes survive espousing "what we know are lies?" How are Art and Bill allowed to say the things they say out loud? How can Marrs produce his books, or Stan report enigma's nooks? How does Strieber tell his tale, how do others pierce their veil?
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It's been claimed that these are "agents," the *mainstream* uses as their agent, keeping what the "man" wants "hidden"... what's been deemed proscribed—forbidden! When *these* report a truth, by golly, that truth can be dismissed as folly! Then, in fact, the truth can hide! The best of places, in plain sight!
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..."They" tease our bruised credulity, contuse our incredulity, then leaven fear with glad distraction to lead us to our sad inaction? Then the *night* comes yet again not like a thief, not quite a friend, you're reminded yet again—if you're awake to hear *strange* men— that there is more to light than "day..." to have your confidence ripped away! Then you're programmed for the sun, where "pretty lies," to sooth, are sung.
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The folks of late night are but "tools"? A question begged to prove a rule: that folks of "late night's" *party line* pretend for "cold percentage signs"? That they are slaves of corporate masters (?), covering all their bets (the bastards!)? Making like they're "all tuned in"... to truth and light and current trends... just to keep us off our guard—so faking they have truth's regard?
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...Just another entertainment facilitating our containment?  Denial's ever plausible wrapped in what is possible, conflated "truth-ness" then corrodes what truth is there... ...a mother's load!
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Well—not from light that I'm perceiving; there's little proof, Bell's double-dealing. These are folks who just like me would want more truth.  It sets us free.
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These have honor!  They have heart, and just like me would take their part... embracing wider paradigms with courage and an open mind!  They're not all "agents"—set against—most what's squeezed 'twixt finger's clenched.  All know those fingers that I mean, fists of fascists!  Cruel and mean...
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Were we to be relieved of such, and petty persons bit their dust?  We would be released from that which cheapens spirit: toxic rats.
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Such sights and wonders we'd perceive with senses newly grown one sees... We might live beyond ourselves to transmute into stars, one tells!  We would know non-speakables cast in wonders thought unreachable from "reduction's" squinty sight and from which we might outrun light!
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...Are we conscious of abuse... from grander schemes, unseen.... abstruse, which fan the bottom of our streams to hide in truthless murky memes? Larry King's not ridiculed reporting saucers, or thought a fool; see, he was "prime time" and *prescribed*... to keep the status quo alive!
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Now we would take our part in "this" and turn up what we find exists. There are heaps and gobs of data, evidence beyond errata; SCIENCE more than meets the needs of going where the data leads! Still, giggle-factors hold their sway, liars figure, figures play, so most are mushrooms, fed mere crap... which "daylight" passes off—for fact!
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So, now it's "night" with more folks listening, skies detailed and stars all glistening, going on in time and space belying *daylight's* false embrace! There are truths outside the box that we perceive; They've picked our locks. We have peered behind the curtain; we are not the least uncertain. Still, there is more to this than us! ...Seems now it's *night* that we must trust!
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alienview@roadrunner.com
http://www.alienview.net/





I defend that which should require no defense.
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A defense of poetic commentary, then, qualifies artistic need and justifies desirability, use, and appreciation of same.  Soon poetry becomes requisite as the oldest and most meaningful expression that one can know.  Poetry is the frame of language and expression... poetry provides an expression its provenance and support.  Poetry is what first makes a monkey's small mouth noises more meaningful and memorable.
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I called Art Bell twice in the mid nineties. The first call, on an April Fool's day of one of those years, seemed well received.  I'd briefly detailed a thumbnail history regarding what "April Fool's Day" was really all about. I even made Art laugh at one point.  This encouraged me a few days later into calling on the wildcard line requesting I read this very short poem I'd written (like four lines) about something currently topical... I don't even remember what it was, specifically... perhaps something to do with not having to search for answers about UFOs, but facing ones there and extant.
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It seems poetry was a wildcard not allowed on the "Wildcard Line."  Art's attitude became unexpectedly irritated, dismissive, and cold... so cold...like I had wanted to read the gooshy parts from a serial killer's personal diary or something... seriously, his revulsion was plain.
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His attitude was, in fact, so coldly abrupt and even hostile that I mumbled a shocked and humiliated "Sorry to bother you, then..." and hung up.
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Later on, after the show was up in his, then free, archives, I heard my phone line click dead in his ear as Art explained to his listeners words to the effect that "we don't do *that* on this program," like poetry reading was a known mucoid slime on a hepatitis "C" sufferer's cheap chromed door knob... ouch.  One would think I'd stood up at a Pope's funeral to tell a lame dick joke and tried to wave my own around like it was a prop.
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Well... OK.  ...Hey! It's -his- show and if he won't have poetry reading that's where the "program" bear goes through the "content" buckwheat... and I wrote it off for the most part, but it bothered me, for all the obvious reasons humane, philosophical and cultural, still...
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Much more recently on Art's now long defunct weekend show, a very pleasant sounding young woman wanted to do the same thing: read a few lines of poetry (about the current harmonic convergence I think) and a previously affable Art assumed the same coldness with her that he had with me, and abruptly hung up on her. "We don't -do- that...," he said, after his rejection!
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Do what, really?
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What is his rather hyper offended reactionary behavior all about? What is its genesis? Just where resides its hostile provenance?
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I won't even attempt to answer those questions. They are beside the point made in this piece except to say that it is regrettable behavior walking hand in regrettable hand with the deplorable loss of art, music, and the humanities in our equally regrettable school systems.  That's bad, reader, badder than we know.
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Here's my concern. ...The utter and inexorable exclusion of poetry and the arts by an obtuse authoritarian authority.  Its suffocation.
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Sincerely, consider the unreserved and absolute lack of toleration for same.  Is it not the same inescapable and unchangeable finality reached regarding erosion of the 21st Century soul?  What's reach beyond grasp, then, for?  It is in Bell's "obviously prejudiced conclusiveness" that my greatest concern is revealed. He seemingly feels good to be in a position to put poetry down.
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Frankly... that behavior seems too reactionary. It's too intransigent. It's too uncompromising. I think an alternate "cognitive boat," accessible by more—and more readily employable by most—is being missed at at our eventual peril remembering the dire historical consequences of a prohibited reach beyond grasp.  Seems that soon even grasp is avoided.  Republicans in 2014, by way of example, seem to typify "avoided grasp."  The boat alluded to is appreciative understanding of what "beauty" is, and so behaving then in a way to encourage it around us.
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See, what's being missed in a reflex rejection of poetry: that first exposure to the creation of an expression about "new ideas," difficult expressions that very likely could be not be made initially—or easily said—any other way.  Metaphor and simile leavened with meter and rhyme affixing memory, assuring transfer, and inspiring understanding.  SONG!  Citation becomes unnecessary when one remembers the power of song.  Whole revolutions have been carried on the shoulders of song.
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All words are paint... consider the pictures they compose in your mind, but poetry is the canvas and the brush and the initial human intent. A poem can broach feelings, attitudes, and ideas a lot harder to express effectively than mere prose... or popular songs as alluded to above don't define decades and Shakespeare has no relevance to our modern age. Which of course they do and he does...
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The act of compelling mere words into disciplined meters and rhymes gives a creative expression an immediacy and authority it didn't have before, attaches meaning not as clear before, and provides for a meaningful repetition that wasn't encouraged before. One is encouraged to sing a song more than once if it's got a good tune...
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The act allows for something more endurable, more memorable, and more intimate—something more compelling... something more personal... something more communicative... Poetry is the mechanism for the articulation of difficult ideas, and so, back on topic, is handcrafted for a ufological use.
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There's more.
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There's something extra normal about poetry, one finds, many times. It makes reality focus in a way for both the writer and the reader elevating both in a lasting symbiosis, a symbiosis fortunately not required for success.  The mere aspiration to it is enough.
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The writer writes to be read of course... the writer is an artist and artists perform... but there is a deeper imperative occurring if the writer is not writing so much to be understood, but to himself under-STAND, to make sense, or provide a history. Then understanding gets done regardless, perhaps.
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Poets, and from the hoary start where articulation was new enough to be only poetry, were ever in touch with something useful that is creative and out of the box—instructive or informational just for that!  Poetry is not a frivolity or needless icing on the verbal cake to be shunned and discounted or arbitrarily dismissed; it is the cake in fact!
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Poetry—that well turned if not necessarily rhyming construction of sounds—is the thing to reach beyond the mere word! The requirements of metric discipline or the rhyme itself is the device that reaches further and grasps more... is more significantly penetrating than other literary forms.
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Poetry is that first exploration of unknown worlds. Prose comes in later after poetry to document and provide for an explicit record, but loses something, sometimes, to become even the more inaccurate record, missing spirit for the letter.
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Verily, boys and girls! Poetry is the literary form that all other literary forms humbly follow and from which other expressions issue forth. An essay won't ordinarily inspire a creative painting, or a painting a creative essay, but a poem might. It's no surprise where it does.
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Poetry has a value, a seriousness, and necessity that is forsaken—forsaken, I add, by notable persons like Art Bell who should know better—and forsaken in the easy dismissal, uninformed intolerance, or the unenlightened prejudice against it by persons who should be paying it more respect, of needs!  All our needs.
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Poetry takes one where one's never been or where one wants to go again...
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For example, where else but in a poem could you suggest the truly heretical and live to produce a subsequent writing? This is why snarky jesters kept their heads if critical in Court.  Where else but in a poem could you propose that the sparkling night has usurped the occluded day... usurped it in spirit, in letter, and in deed ... in fact...
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...as the current champion of the greater truth!
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Postscript on effect:
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When I write one of my odd odes I am absolutely taken to another place, self-abducted if you will... if I am... to a parallel world (or dimension) where cold words take on living attributes—personifications of truth, justice, empathy and enlightenment. They line themselves up into forms and meters, provide rhymes for themselves and then deliver themselves whole and at once to be banged onto my computer's keyboard as they swim in and out of focus in my short term memory.  It's like I'm not writing them, initially. It's like they suggest themselves to me. Like someone or something outside myself is speaking to me... just so. Not from me so much as through me.
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When I am writing—or thinking about writing, what I'm writing about, or thinking about thinking— the world around me, many times, is a transformed world where perception has a translucent transparency as if it was made of crystal or some strange new glass/metal alloy.  Frankly?  I get high.
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Winding up... at 2000 plus words this piece is not as concise as those demanding such prefer, I'm sure.  I suggest that these print it out, roll it up in a tight tube, and poke themselves in the eye with it, hard and repeatedly, for the intended effect. For the un-conflicted and more appreciating reader, then, "I'd take you where you've never been or where you'd like to go again."
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You, reader, understand that there is a place for words as paint... or there better be. Words are paint.
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Oh, they're weapons and tools of immortal magic, too, you see, as they can be in more than one place at the same time and they even travel in time... they can be two places at once when they're not anywhere at all! ...But first they are paint.
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They create pictures in the brain with brushes moving faster than light—at the speed of thought—to take the reader where the reader's never been, or where the reader wants to go... again, eh? Every word is a drop of color. Sentences are brushstrokes, paragraphs are portraits, and pages are the considered landscapes of our flotsam-ed and jetsam-ized Sea, Land, and Endless Mental Sky...
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Why might that be?
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There is a general feeling of complete satisfaction, accomplishment—a sense of contribution and connectedness—the senses feel truly quickened... sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell seem enhanced and extraordinary!  Sixth and seventh senses seem a distinct possibility... They confuse themselves one with another in a kind of synesthesia. I hear a little color; I see a little sound; I taste a little touch.
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Sometimes pleasant and exotic odors waft inexplicably by perhaps enhancing a thought just had. Notes and chords not heard before are heard in a chance bit of music playing—the whole body feels like a finger tip non-salaciously but appreciative tracing an outline of beauty's face... time and space are eternal and I (we)... part of that eternity... ...and then the piece is done.
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It's a little like a death, I think, or a seasonal fall suggesting the (not so) inevitable spring that has come back, every time so far... Still, whenever I finish a piece I wonder if this is the last one.
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Will a tyrant's society provide me with one too many duplicitous distractions to achieve whatever it is that is required to be inspired... to even produce a new one... re-enter that hugely satisfying adjacent universe of beauty and creation as different from the everyday world as eight bit color is to 64... and a universe to be shared as the universe aspires to share, free of charge to anyone sharing an expanding connectedness!
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I likely disclose too much... compelled though I am to disclose in fact... still, welcome to my world... facilitated, ameliorated, and conjugated by poetic commentary and critical prose.  It abides as do I, with it and in its service.
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Restore John Ford...
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