--Maurice Esworthy, for the Atomic Age Opens Postcard Project, Bowling Green University(1995)





Oooh! the favored drink is red wine, lighting sanguine fires of
multifarious stratus stars. And dreams are falling like silhouettes.

That Leonid meteor shower is caused by icy zircons drafting comet
Tempel-Tuttle on its lope around the sun. Spring, too, was slow in unfolding.
Unchain my heart, you lucky ol' sun! Know I'm sayin'?

Autumn recurs in flashes. Cosmic arcs rip into Mother Earth's atmosphere
at 40 miles a second, burning into a streak of light known as a shooting star.
Onamatapoeaic bursts. Dazzling displays. Yes. Yes!
Seemingly. Absolutely the most beautiful millenia.

A memory before the year when they were sopportato.
When I fell into a burning ring of fire.
Love... is a losing game.

Y'unnerstan' where I'm comin' from?
Galileo hears about an enlarging glass;
response: Galileo invents the telescope.

Les pleiades de pleiades.
Un rêve au delà de la nuit...
quand des étoiles en chute
somnolentes sont allées.
Et, oui -- une terre éloignée.
Cette terre, au delà de ma porte,

A dream beyond a dream--
the moon's glow and tangled
refection is the nexus
of our ancient link with Lietuva.

Far away from this century of din and speed without objective. An
ancient sea. Sea birds dip where trovario amber glistens in sunlight
and wave shadow.
O sonic astronomers: look to the sea.

Apparent motion of heavenly bodies reel 'bout a stationary earth.
The man in black, notwithstanding. Any one thing
can either be the case, or not be the case,
and everything else remains the same.

The swarming city washes up its estranged waifs
on the cold shores and corners of cobblestone alleys
and faubourgs. And, where is the love?

Beyond the sea?

Sophia Loren-- the damp waters
of the summer of love
still clinging to her wet suit.
Glistening. Visionary.

Deep under the coral, triggering a Baltic memory of forests,
of protected trees of fir and glades of the oak
they answer to. Riunite, intense scent of heavy air,
strawberry blues, blue riders
under a sonorous sky...
Orion, the hunter.

That still haunting, haunted
ancient melodie.
Captured by the game.
Bending notes.
Though miles be arduous, come, please,
enter into the hurt,
feel the pain of flatted sevenths
and consequent passage of days. From
a solar connection made long before my birth.

Blue notes. Selsun tingle.
The tie with Lietuva remains....

Extremely. How much the gravity, with the earth,
crushes the children. Am I blue?

The aim of the song and satiricon of rhythm
is to praise the dangers of Leonids.
Pain of the Horda.
La luna. Lente inferno suprae potente. Yo!

Don't that moon look lonesome shinin' through the trees? All poetri
from the Perseids is in the manner of Baltic legends. A night sky dreams
of memories and moonbeams and il penserosa is part of the path to bonanza
by way of ponderosa and even the japanese banzai
which is charged and fraught with meaning beyond this finite universe
of tears and laughter and Nikes.

Aroma of Comet.

Beatitudes swell.

Take the first word that comes into your mind
and repeat until dawn. Look! Look, Jane.

Look to the stars; morning becomes.
Klattu Borada Nictu. Yes!

Lunar silhouettes
on the shade. Moon-
light becomes.
Prell.

Red [and]..green
and. blue.

And

you.





--Marty Esworthy





MORE STUFF


Investigation is the key to success. Summer is stellar.
Sure, Goethe had an overly simplistic view of nationhood.
But "I'm really for the new, I'm really for
the oceanic,"
explains Maurice of Romany,
whose interests include, like,
multimedia performance art
and fine dining. And a sense of history.

Not, neccessarily, historians.

"I think they're trying to reach out,
and they have excellent sessions on the classics. But
when it comes to the present, they
don't really try to understand what's happening.

Here and now. Near and far
and wide." But, not too wide.

And by that I don't mean maybe
but aesthetically.

Marxism, poetry can divide
or critique a dominant culture without losing sight
of its aesthetic achievements -- neither new
nor particularly complex.

Somewhere out of this cacophony, this tension
between brand new stratus and
old stratus is likened to cloud theory.
And you know what
that's all about, eh?

Crows in the clouds.
Julia Tilley said that.

Calling a tail a leg
don't make it a leg,
Abraham Lincoln said that.
Know I'm sayin'?

You send me, Sam Cooke said that.

And by that, I don't mean.

So, send your ideas, poems, polaroids, calamari, currency,
cantankerous comments, etc. to: newpoetri, mauriceIII@k.ro
I'll letcha be in my dream, if I can be in yours.

---

Performance art, Thinkin 'bout Ng

Experimental Forest Press

that Helgeson Story Thang!

the Miserere review

Cosa Literaria De la Punta De Acero

Megaera Review