for peter orlovsky in the sky

[mikebauer]

here's my house ducked into a room,
i look around: there's my chair,
and my computer is buzzing with joy:
on the screen is a model me,
with emo and a flash, and i look over
the exposure of my integrate: it's all
here with me.

white walls, white white-out in my
artic brain, so many open spaces
to build an igloo.

over there is my chair and there's clothes
on it and on the floor -- everything wants
to lay down with everything, and there's
happy piles of clothes all over. my bed
is all sleeping bagged up with thick a-plastic
fuzzy, and i'm so warm at night.

my camera's on that table,
and the table's on its legs and covering
some books and floor. my camera is my friend,
so today i'll protect him from gray cold clouds,
and sit and watch it keep warm: i do not
exploit my friends.

on the bike, in my room, over there,
is more clothes, cause it's winter
and more clothes go on than what i need
inside, and there's an underwear
on the handlebars -- should i rub my hand
on them or rub them on my face??? i do
not know, cause it's too happy to see
so much of someone else at all. who's
hunders har these at hall?? who's table,
whose bike, whose recherche' du temps,
trouve' ??

i drink my cup empty, and flinger down
on the keys and this is what comes.

so, petre, what was what you gave to allen,
which didn't make him turn you into a shooting star??

and, nathan, how did i fail to light brooklyn batteries
of incanduction, that day in the desert inside that seam?


...

[billy]

here's my house ducked into a room,
i look around: there's my chair,
and my computer is buzzing with joy:
on the screen is a model me,
with emo and a flash, and i look over
the exposure of my integrate: it's all
here with me.

white walls, white white-out in my
artic brain, so many open spaces
to build an igloo.

over there is my chair and there's clothes
on it and on the floor -- everything wants
to lay down with everything, and there's
happy piles of clothes all over. my bed
is all sleeping bagged up with thick a-plastic
fuzzy, and i'm so warm at night.

my camera's on that table,
and the table's on its legs and covering
some books and floor. my camera is my friend,
so today i'll protect him from gray cold clouds,
and sit and watch it keep warm: i do not
exploit my friends.

on the bike, in my room, over there,
is more clothes, cause it's winter
and more clothes go on than what i need
inside, and there's an underwear
on the handlebars -- should i rub my hand
on them or rub them on my face??? i do
not know, cause it's too happy to see
so much of someone else at all. who's
hunders har these at hall?? who's table,
whose bike, whose recherche' du temps,
trouve' ??

i drink my cup empty, and flinger down
on the keys and this is what comes.

so, petre, what was what you gave to allen,
which didn't make him turn you into a shooting star??

and, nathan, how did i fail to light brooklyn batteries
of incanduction, that day in the desert inside that seam?


...

i get the poverty connection between the writer and orlovsky.
i get the emo and the sharing. but apart from that and the reference to petre and ginsberg and brooklyn where orlovsy ws brought up i'm struggling to find the poem relate to orlovsky in a deeper way. i get the camera and the white (which i presume is reference to when he was a hospital worker) i'm not too well up on orlovsy so have no idea who nathan is unless keroucs first name was nathan i presume nathan was your ginsberg. and you were his orlovsky?
now to the poem itself.

the penultimate line i really like. though would have liked to have seen a recognisable name in there. my fault if he's know for not knowing who it is but that how it is, i don't know it.

first off i like it. it's original For me the topic could be more concise most who read it won't have a clue who orlovsky was. the french was lost a bit.
on me as i think it would be on many. i like the way you animate the camera. which also ties the piece in with orlovsy. (strike the part where i said only a couple of things tie in with him) but i still think this poem would be just a nice poem to many readers. which is good in itself but not enough if you're trying to convey a definite article.

i think it's a little too prose. but nothing two minutes wouldn't sort.

i wish i could write like this. nicely done.

[mikebauer]

i wanted to write this gift to myself, this easy open write, and peter has always been one of my models -- the things said in this are only in his style --though not really -- and only about my life: there's no peter's world in this, it's not a story about peter... it's a take on my life through peter's mode of expression.

the name 'nathan' -- you just have to take that as coming inside this poem, and figure it's got some emo reality because of the words surrounding the name. you've got the point, yes, and now all that needs to complete it is to figure that ginsberg was a shit, and that maybe showing nathan that he's acted unconscious is kind of to say that appearances count for nothing...? but, we were all beatniks back then to the straights.

this is totally a kind of portrait of me, if you were to visit and watch me when i'm not being arty. i'm just in my place, my world, and my wording.

here's my house ducked into a room,
i look around: there's my chair,
and my computer is buzzing with joy:
on the screen is a model me,
with emo and a flash, and i look over
the exposure of my integrate: it's all
here with me.

white walls, white white-out in my
artic brain, so many open spaces
to build an igloo.

over there is my chair and there's clothes
on it and on the floor -- everything wants
to lay down with everything, and there's
happy piles of clothes all over. my bed
is all sleeping bagged up with thick a-plastic
fuzzy, and i'm so warm at night.

my camera's on that table,
and the table's on its legs and covering
some books and floor. my camera is my friend,
so today i'll protect him from gray cold clouds,
and sit and watch it keep warm: i do not
exploit my friends.

on the bike, in my room, over there,
is more clothes, cause it's winter
and more clothes go on than what i need
inside, and there's an underwear
on the handlebars -- should i rub my hand
on them or rub them on my face??? i do
not know, cause it's too happy to see
so much of someone else at all. who's
hunders har these at hall?? who's table,
whose bike, whose recherche' du temps,
trouve' ??

i drink my cup empty, and flinger down
on the keys and this is what comes.

so, petre, what was what you gave to allen,
which didn't make him turn you into a shooting star??

and, nathan, how did i fail to light brooklyn batteries
of incanduction, that day in the desert inside that seam?


...

i get the poverty connection between the writer and orlovsky.
i get the emo and the sharing. but apart from that and the reference to petre and ginsberg and brooklyn where orlovsy ws brought up i'm struggling to find the poem relate to orlovsky in a deeper way. i get the camera and the white (which i presume is reference to when he was a hospital worker) i'm not too well up on orlovsy so have no idea who nathan is unless keroucs first name was nathan i presume nathan was your ginsberg. and you were his orlovsky?
now to the poem itself.

the penultimate line i really like. though would have liked to have seen a recognisable name in there. my fault if he's know for not knowing who it is but that how it is, i don't know it.

first off i like it. it's original For me the topic could be more concise most who read it won't have a clue who orlovsky was. the french was lost a bit.
on me as i think it would be on many. i like the way you animate the camera. which also ties the piece in with orlovsy. (strike the part where i said only a couple of things tie in with him) but i still think this poem would be just a nice poem to many readers. which is good in itself but not enough if you're trying to convey a definite article.

i think it's a little too prose. but nothing two minutes wouldn't sort.

i wish i could write like this. nicely done.

[billy]

i wanted to write this gift to myself, this easy open write, and peter has always been one of my models -- the things said in this are only in his style --though not really -- and only about my life: there's no peter's world in this, it's not a story about peter... it's a take on my life through peter's mode of expression.

the name 'nathan' -- you just have to take that as coming inside this poem, and figure it's got some emo reality because of the words surrounding the name. you've got the point, yes, and now all that needs to complete it is to figure that ginsberg was a shit, and that maybe showing nathan that he's acted unconscious is kind of to say that appearances count for nothing...? but, we were all beatniks back then to the straights.

this is totally a kind of portrait of me, if you were to visit and watch me when i'm not being arty. i'm just in my place, my world, and my wording.

the clothes and scattered debris in the apartment show it's about someone other than peter who has an affinity with him. apart from a few lines we can see the poem is about x whoever x is.

i think that aspect (the affinity) needs more airtime. the title offers more than the body of poem gives. (just my opinion of course.)

[mikebauer]

read it for 'tone' -- it's not a story: a poem is never a story, it's a picture of the author's brain function. you've got the pieces in this, now just trip them all together for a little walk around my head.

i wanted to write this gift to myself, this easy open write, and peter has always been one of my models -- the things said in this are only in his style --though not really -- and only about my life: there's no peter's world in this, it's not a story about peter... it's a take on my life through peter's mode of expression.

the name 'nathan' -- you just have to take that as coming inside this poem, and figure it's got some emo reality because of the words surrounding the name. you've got the point, yes, and now all that needs to complete it is to figure that ginsberg was a shit, and that maybe showing nathan that he's acted unconscious is kind of to say that appearances count for nothing...? but, we were all beatniks back then to the straights.

this is totally a kind of portrait of me, if you were to visit and watch me when i'm not being arty. i'm just in my place, my world, and my wording.

the clothes and scattered debris in the apartment show it's about someone other than peter who has an affinity with him. apart from a few lines we can see the poem is about x whoever x is.

i think that aspect (the affinity) needs more airtime. the title offers more than the body of poem gives. (just my opinion of course.)

[billy]

read it for 'tone' -- it's not a story: a poem is never a story, it's a picture of the author's brain function. you've got the pieces in this, now just trip them all together for a little walk around my head.

i think you're missing my point.

i want the poem to tell me what to do, not the author.
and to some extent that's what happening.

and everything's a story, it all tells us something. but that's off topic.

[addy]

I really like how you've written this out, the almost carelessness of your wording. Unfortunately, I haven't really got anything to objectively critique about your poem, right now, structurally it looks good to me and flows well. I like the feel of it too. But if, as the title leads me to assume, that this is an homage to Peter Orlovsky, then I'd have to say that tonally it seems different from his work (at least from what I've read of it). I don't know what it is. Are the words too self-conscious for it? But anyway, even though it doesn't read completely like an Orlovsky poem, it's an excellent piece that stands well on its own merits.

[mikebauer]

thanks very much for saying you like this and like the easiness of the form -- that's exactly what i was going for. and, this wasn't an homage, really -- it was a letter to peter, who isn't dead yet, and i was just talking with him in that peter orlovsky way of writing a poem. he's better, sometimes, than this, but this kind of has a feel for his spirit.

thanks.

I really like how you've written this out, the almost carelessness of your wording. Unfortunately, I haven't really got anything to objectively critique about your poem, right now, structurally it looks good to me and flows well. I like the feel of it too. But if, as the title leads me to assume, that this is an homage to Peter Orlovsky, then I'd have to say that tonally it seems different from his work (at least from what I've read of it). I don't know what it is. Are the words too self-conscious for it? But anyway, even though it doesn't read completely like an Orlovsky poem, it's an excellent piece that stands well on its own merits.

[addy]

Ah, it's my misinterpretation then You're right though, it not being about aping; you just adopted a different lens/perspective. But its still your voice that I'm hearing which makes it different.

[mikebauer]

yes, it really is. it's got a more classical rigor to the lines and it's weaker than peter's work, just because of that -- peter hadn't been writing long at all -- i think his second poem is the one i like the best. but, how he pops off these un-worded-transition, out of the head, bursts of feeling is very touching.

Ah, it's my misinterpretation then You're right though, it not being about aping; you just adopted a different lens/perspective. But its still your voice that I'm hearing which makes it different.

[addy]

It really is the hardest thing to shed those mental blocks to make a poem that's completely guileless; I guess its the great appeal of his work. It comes across in your poem, anyway. Lovely.

[mikebauer]

thanks again. i have one or two more that are just popped out of the head kind of writing, and maybe i'll post them.