Slurp, Gulp and Start on Sounds: Recent Episodes
Chris Lorensson
In 2011 I finished creating my poetry anthology. Excited to publish, I ordered a hard copy to finally proofread. That copy arrived, but then my hard drive died—taking all the files with it. The book was never published, and this singular copy has been on my shelf ever since. But now, I’m sharing it with you. In this podcast, I’m reading poems from the book, and diving more deeply into some of them.
In my recorded diary,
Duplications react to preserve their integrity –
these tapes won't see me through a whole year.
After each season there's reason to archive;
posting each note as individual lives.
In winter, I archive my diary library.
Files intact will display contents.
Copies react, creating chemical burns.
If an item merged into a note to tell you
of something that happened a few months ago,
That chocolate cake'd prob'ly slide around.
Dip this stick in paste post-haste! and smear that stuff on-to that tape.
The paste's my remedy for fame: these tapes can't ever be erased.
In spring, I'll archive that shit away –
sometimes I love & sometimes I hate.
Reality refuses to be shut at the gate.
These tapes'll record themselves on the way.
Take this torch and melt all those tapes.
Pop-in-cassettes make me not have to wait.
But speed's an invoice for letting me rest.
If an item merged into a note to tell you
that you've been merging events from your past...
(It took me some time to see how I'd react.)
Spark that torch to touch this whole bunch! and liquify mem'ries of'archiving in love.
The torch is my remedy for fame: these tapes can't ever be replaced.
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I'll give and take from you – you Giver and Taker.
Your form will shape me up
You kindly give to me these dreams
I can be such a giver
I can give or shape it up
Mysteries will shroud yourself;
making it comfortable to be with You. You can be my guest.
Now we've seven hours left.
Now I'm so 'up-and-done'.
Mysteries leave nothing left,
with clouds like boulders overhead, You can be my guest,
kindly shaping me right up –
I would be set in your love.
Your form will shape me up:
How many days to Life, God? (it's funny how concerns wake us
when days to Life'll overtake.)
You turn your one-step-method in ten for us.
Wellness becomes inherent –
I can't help but be so well!
I can be well-off, indeed, or
I can give or shape it up
Like a trickling stream, giving;
making reaching far an easy feeling. You can be my guest.
Ease-of-use is pretty sleazy.
Can it all to wrap it up.
Trickling streams are so appealing,
the constant flow is just like You. You can be my guest,
fill me up in bucketous fun –
I will be filled with Jesus' love.
Your form will shape me up:
Righteousness is bothersome. (don't I know that righteousness
is held in Truth and Love?)
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Your mysteries they swallow me whole –
Surf the silence down the throat.
I cut the curves and hug my board.
Each muffled breath a soundless crash.
It's darkness I have never known –
a wet path undulating road.
I hope and pray to know the half
of striking one breathless, still, a chord.
Concentrate on me when you swallow–
articulate your neck to help me down.
I'm trying, surfing the neck
to help myself.
In darkness I can't find my way.
But this is not the same.
My life, now, is in your name
as I know I'm on your path.
I'm desperate and sinking.
I'm thinking and thrashing
wondering when I'll reach your heart.
If that's where I'm headed.
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There's several ways to catch me up:
Up to Golden Altars Run
Growth won't come by catching up – the cultivation overcomes.
A life in time won't grow at all, it's time and life that passes by.Growth won't come by catching up.
It's a big event in history; to push like waves an accident;
that cultivates a rushing wave of foolish stuff.
There's several ways to keep in touch:
Loving arms do lift me up
Wrestle me down into the dark - wrestle me you finite spark.
Incidental wrestling calls for consequential things that come.Wrestle me down into the dark.
I've got arms to fight the dark; these hands attached to other arms;
they've got sparks that cause alarm!
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I'm splaying myself out:
These sinewed bones'll have to wait
for comfort zones & feelings'f home.
I'm spreading myself thin and shoving my neck out
in hopes of heading towards-within.
This opening of doors will encourage movement towards my heart.
I'm horizontal on the outside deck – body soaking up foul weather,
lying, awaiting pain from deconstruction-by-meditation.
I'm splaying myself out:
Like an electrician, over a year, disarms a bomb.
He prepares his specimen atop a workbench –
Unable to reason where he went wrong. Unable to "pray-tell why we..."
Unable to re-engage due to underestimation.
If it takes a year to encourage movement towards my heart.
I plan to re-display.
I plan to re-engage.
I'm splaying myself out:
In the interest of learning what it's all about.
In order to know where these tendons belong –
Particles move, swapping places, one with another.
Fatty tissue and muscles are a walk in the park.
A simple nap with limbs strewn about, simplification –
a simple overexemplification of Minimalism.
A simple memory of life in the womb:
Before this hour's passed I'll have forgotten all my power.
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Q. How is it that chocolate cakes can pat you on the back? after cutting them up into bite-size pieces?
A. Then know they're killing you, now from the inside!!! (Write to your congressman)
Our hamburger heads will take over the world.
We are fat? And we like it?
We are fat and we like it.
We're like it !
We can be flighty and think only of ourselves.
When our hips swing one way
One day I'll rule the world !!
and swinging toward the other
I'm the center of the universe .
This chocolate cake can slide around and take its own control:
it inflates my hip; tragically skewing performance toward the baking aisle.
slipping under my feet – it sends me sliding vicariously through life.
[R.P.]...Audience, say it with me !! ...
[All]...W e h a v e a w a y t o f i g h t b a c k ! ![R.P.]...That's right ! We have a way to fight back !
[All]...(cheering)
[R.P.]...With the Ronco Personal Dehydrator™ you too can...
(Ron hold finger in air)
[All]...Fight Fat & Fake Fit ! !
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Have I ever let us down before?
(the gate slammed open 'gainst our paint'd yellow fence)
-you know if it had ever been, I'd up and you'd have left.
Consequence will catch us up in tears and recompense.
Isn't this the third movement? Haven't you been too stern?
(this time I'd stricken down what hope and grace had left.)
Consequence will catch us up in tears and recompense.
Time in Monaco.
Driving through the leaves and moonbeams flooded through these trees-
what can we expect from such an arbitrary night?
Leaflets hoarded the space we had tonight-
'...they wandered into mists of grass.'
In places reaching closer to your home than comfort lends,
These leaflets were surrounding causing tears and recompense.
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We'll make riches flow from our pants-
"Come, now, Doctor... let's make them an offer
of wealthiest homes and numbers and figures.
-strap them down w'th our leathers and fingers!"
Watch as the stiches explode from our hats!(This old ruler was never an edge
to count on, or invest the least bit of lint.
He'd never walk on your side 'o the bridge.
'never indulge in communal events.)
Gaze at the picture of britches in rags!(No, we've no need of your filigree'd tables;
or desklamps, or barstools from barbaric fables.
All we want is our guitars and cables-
with amps and voltage to bother our neighbors.)
The Doctor replied with a raised lower lip-
"they really won't need any of this."
And He stormed, no, strolled rather- out of the top
of the gold-plated castle with diamond-clad cops.
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On spikes that tether ropes around
silent space with bridges bound for nearer places
Down the ropes, into The Sound;
they transformed us into this space... those spatial cogs and wheels turning.
Entirety drops us down: David and Kelly
Landing each as we drop down: visiting neighborhoods One-per-minuteWe say "Hi" and visit a lot. We eat and drink with neighbors.
Roping us 'round spikes bind us
and tell stories from The Past, tell us of Neighborhoods and Davids and Kellys
While we all drop down to future visits
we i n s t i g a t e friends to think of us; to think of "Dave 'n Kel" with love.
Drenched in space with ropes as walls, roping 'round.
We've seen sopping deserts and woodsy hurricanes at One-per-minuteDavid sings and Kelly sings songs into The Sound.
(slash - bring us back to The Past where we've already been before. What did He say?)
We're The Space the cogs & wheels turn - in faces looking presidential,
The Space of David and Kelly
Jam sessions knock us around. The bridges we've crossed have transformed us.
We've found what we're looking for – T-R-A-N, S-F-O-R, M-A-T-I-O-N
These jam sessions teach us about 1) the bridges we've crossed and 2) our transformation.
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waayo
a microphone for vocal tone
a microphone an ice cream cone
a motorhome to call my own
my mispelled mystery to keep
hist'ry – broken home cologne
let's fuck it up in just one day
a list of my friends names and numbers
you can't just leave it lying around ! ? the way you keep is unlike any other object, little black book, black bible. the fibres become accustomed to supporting those corners: the stack of love in ink and paper. they learn to love and forsake the starch, the novelty of newness, in giving way to sharp reams... they know them all by number
waayo
I've seen awards you get for just being there
sometimes not
award to call my own
my kakhi-stack, my beige-ness of heart
my reason to hope, unnecessary spark
a column-list of names, one more in numbers
a set of keys
what do you do with them? obviously – what do they unlock? each and every one. the PO box key you never returned, a lock for the blue bike you rode to school. they will sit neatly in a keyhole, and hang voluntarily. you can unlock the back door without hitting the outside of the lock – just right in the hole every time. practise makes perfect.
waayo
tell them apart by each steel clinknope, those are hers
ching ching, there...
my passport to the world
the thing i love most
the keys the keys
a microphone
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I'm the undefinable water-
from one stream to another- passing back and forth.
Obstacle course is lifey tributary.
Arrival point: my dam obituary.
I am the end of this road-
hoping in hope for going alone.
Listen while I tell you why you
do not make your life about you.
This darkness can't make me come back.
I'm second-best in pasty death.
Look to me for your convincing
when ideas say that you're exempt.
The times in tungsten-light
flicker like the bulb was on my head.
This current won't keep
up the tungsten-light.
But we know how not to care;
those ways've been paved on the path of the past,
and that's why it's called "The Past."
The times in utter darkness
can't make me come back –
I'm second-best in pasty death
and you're first on that path.
It doesn't undo what's already been
'cause you can't take back a damned thing you did.
-and that's why it's called "The Past."
The times in understanding
foster carelessness sometimes.
Our truth has become a lie
and we can't change a thing.
There are factors that weigh in our circumstances.
There's things that change us from what's been done.
-and that's why it's called "The Past."
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Come back down to Earth (where you'll still smell like swiss cheese)
Come visit the folks who don't know (that they don't need you)
You'll look like Mother Theresa when you visit those souls.
A look goes far for the hearts of hungry homes.
I can picture you leaning into the fridge every ten minutes;
to skillfully peel away slices of swiss with your pocketknife.
It's no wonder it leaks out your pores
like mastication never happened.
Spray on 'smelly-stuff' like it covers sins! Your ways will never bandage you up!
Your head is smelly and your heart is stuffed with swiss – it's your swiss love.
Shame for words has no appeal, your soul only longs for cheese. Reality is not like cheese.
Come back down to Earth (where you'll still smell like swiss cheese)
Come visit the folks who don't know (that they don't need you)
You'll consume the souls as if they were the cheese.
Oh, you are so presumptuous. You are who you've been.
You're accustomed to cheese every day; and it has become a habit.
It's so weird – about the holes. Most other types don't have them – just swiss.
That's why you like it:
it reminds you of you.
Don't you bring me stuff that has been made to smell like you.
Each time you take a bite it makes another hole in your heart that must be filled with something other than the swiss cheese; "You are what you eat!"
Hope was lost years ago when you left us, when mom fired you. Reality is not like cheese.
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Wish-washy Italian alleys collaborate.
create this North-corner apartment.
Leaving room for kitchen and bath
they trash walls between rooms.
Pulled ceilings partially fail to reveal beams above
We can't make this work.
Forcing strips of streets inward
they pull this top-floor too short to the North –
leaving incidental balconies above East and West (Italian St.)
Cobblestones convince an old Juniper to get in
on this fun to cool the spatial expanse inside.
There's an Italian lack-of-purity here.
The Streets won't let alone.
Yellow smoke makes hazy home.
Collaboration beneath the Juniperian Headstone.
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Messages bounce from blankfaces, pass along
glances that act as if they're paving the way.
But hands on the ends of wooden arms are lifted-
how they fly to pierce glass atmosphere.
They all sit to form a circle.
Wield organic hand-on-wood-arms.
And use them like baseball-bats! Messages bounce from hand to hand...
Swung over their heads.
It will feel like meat. Slapping electronic sleepy fuzz-meat.
Never to awaken - hand-stick / stick-hand.
Slapped back and forth.
There is no outside the circle.
Fuzz meat swingbatterbatter those messages!
Your swing goes outside the circle -
No one asks why no one sees the difference anymore
Don't just do something, stand there!
Message flies like rubber packed
with years of forgiveness, welling up.
When it hits, it hits you hard.
We rejoin formation;
And in unison we begin to swing
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Once we had a time together –
I made you laugh and I pinched you hard.
The wonder of love was never there.
You were always taller, like in this picture.
Your gold ruffles out-shined this old t-shirt.
I never had your sense of style.
Christmas morning and we were all dressed up?
Did mom make us get it together
or was it just one of her cocktail parties?
Your gold ruffles were fancy like a horse.
You danced and spoke like time was yours.
Your height and build made me seem small
when you wore those jean coveralls.
Your done-up hair had trounced my pumps-
no matter how much air I'd release.
I'd never been able to run or jump
like you could during volleyball season.
Just one more year would mean a world
of difference when we'd be set side-by-side.
I'd have been way shorter
or you'd have been way smarter
instead of this side-by-side.
Now look at us...
a silly maze of misunderstanding.
The wonder of love is all that's here.
I'm much bigger
and it makes me wonder
which one of us has it together.
Now I can wake up early. (you always had that on me)
But you make good decisions.
Let's get together for a cocktail party.
Your fuzzy mane looks like a mohawk.
Your funny face is what I expect, now.
Your skinny legs make me wonder
which one of us has it together.
You don't have to push me nowadays.
I'll do the silly things you say.
But if I could do the things you do
It'd just be like I'm being you.
Let's go another year and see
what difference it makes with us.
Will I finally be taller?
Will you finally be more hip
like me? Is it in the cards for us?
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How can one know your places?—
Your cavernous spaces.
Us kidz sit to bleed the tensions fit to feel.
Our reality changes faces like leprous lepers; we’re all fit to feel.
Pins from steel we’ll seperate,
changing times need changed lives.
You’ll lead by example us who’ll evaporate -
dig us deeper down do satiate.
Uncover the unknown in set-right tones.
We’ll get right if you uncover, we’ll discover.
Weaken the crack we live in,
shovels break ground with your mighty hand.
Our plans lay down as we give in;
distancing for Kingdom-come, overcome.
Us kidz sit to bleed the tensions fit to feel.
We know what you’re about, transformation.Rinse dust off mysteries, excavation–
inhabitation by new remedy.
How can one know your places?—
Your cavernous spaces.
Helping hands do heavy-lifting
but we can’t come home.
Your cavernous spaces play home to your throne.
And we’re a helping hand.
Whip crack! in might, that mighty hand.
Play-digging breaking ground like mighty headz.
Separate sheep from wolves in heaps and droves–
these mighty headz.
Us kidz sit to bleed the tensions fit to feel.
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Alive when rocks can thrash
tempered steel and flimsy cash...
once to be
apart from me
once I grew
nearer to you, apart from you,
is balderdash.
Dying still closer is this:
Pristine loss is a mis-hit...
calling three
soldiers to be
a lesser proof of dying youth, apart from you,
a useless rule.
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Sliding in our distant space?
What makes us think it's ours?-
Driving- distanced in our cars.
No, reason never reached me there- it was here,
at The Main Street Fair-
it was at the Carnival's commons..
they got all the attention that first belonged to you.
Our hearts were not ready to.
Kissing in the telephone booths, hidden by forests of canvasy shelter.
Mostly midnight blues about us...
Mostly blue with flash-photography.
We were much too busy talking eye-jive times and making it happen-
reading the lines off the church wall in faux paisley.
-fake everything.
Even the sets we saw on the rides were fake.
And we'd cheer eachother on with our brilliant ignorance!-
as if we didn't know of all the horror behind those sets;
with red-sprayed carpets and fenceposts bent.
Raping our minds when we were invited to watch it;
and then charging us for the nice view, they'd marred our hearts one toward another.
Every now and then we call their bluff-
all it took was a little love.
Over the phone, with a bolder voice than before,
I started talking about all the fake sets:
'Why did it take us all so long‽'
'You're just like the rest- all meaningless talk...'
'-but I didn't know there were any more of us..'
'Yesterday, someone asked one of us why we give them a parents' gift again...
I said I would but He wouldn't appreciate it- he couldn't- because he didn't know where we had gotten our overall funds...'
'You've all worked hard, but it's all just a game...'
' -of moral beliefs and market-based gain!'
'one of my friends was stoked on your ride.'
'He should have found his own fuckin' slide...'
'One thing I have found is your total lack of care...'
'One thing I'd say is I'm working out here at Main Street Fair... with kids upon kids crawling and sucking the life out of me- I once had a son who was just seventeen. I taught him to save his own life and to hate. I showed him a little 'bout fighting for fame while he was in school learning market-based gain. Then at the fair he was lost in a crowd; but turned up dead due to rodeo cows. Now I sit and visit the kids in hopes of some miracle of seeing my son. No one in California knows what I've done.'
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Surround out. Surround out.
Life and time- "oh what the hell..."
is life to rhyme the citadel; the maiden's fairest waif of all-
This burden of a life for us will crush our hope in knowledge-
-will can a love for fear of God.
This isn't a lame excuse for us- it's just a burden of life for us.
It's love for God in all the wrong places- in my hearts dark cave of abstinent spaces.
It's time well spent in searching for loosely scattered jewels and lace.
One can near expect the bar to raise up higher than high is high
in th'midst of bloody, laborious eyes. They have it all- all in what they looked for.
Life and time- "I'll have it all!"
before the audience' last HURRAH!; they're fat with hist'ries and wedding gifts.
-They're fit to lift up hands of praise to offer fat and sand and maize;
History will record a life and time of citadelish lover's crush.
and that'll tell us all of what the life and time has burdened us.
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We could be depraved any minute of the day,
laid down like Cayman Islands' habitual silence.
laid down like flaming wicker, flames and flicker.
There's peace in absence – and I'm left wanting
We balance atop a playful STAND [who]
promises to support us [and]
oath like no one else can do.
help lay down my head, upon a pillow on my bed
We could be engaged any minute of the day
wand'ring about why, or
wond'ring about why
But we stay — straight.
We discuss the ways to stay up late:
Cappuccino, látte, Betty Page.
Wilford Brimley, Bonnie Raitt.
We construct a waiting game –
playing each-others' turns away.
Keep our feet on the ground,
our heads are in the clouds,
stop the discussion & get us down,
with oath like no one else can do– promise to support me.
We stay
on display
any minute of
the day.
Fingers twitching, let us speak.
We're needy kids so leave us be.
Hit me with that Windex, kid –
and clear a way for us to leave.
laid down
We go down, and sleep on our knees.
Time slows by, and then rewinds.
We arise, still hear breathing like too much reverb…
exhaling wet breath on our jeans. un-do-ing our seams unravelling exposing our knees
Asleep when things aren't always as they seem, reluctant,
to expose anything, like, say, ourselves
ever again
There's enough of that in the world, but people keep on giving
Such generosity mends itself like a soldier in the bush
tending to press-on rather than dress his wounds.
Such exposition's like endless direction…
Concentration as time, sadly ends.
Clamber… up and be on the right or left side to begin.
It's all so messy, but we must begin.
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I can play word games, they're all just mind games. Once a year.
Where I was raised we put our words where our tiles are.
We could communicate by our tiles, layout being context
and turns being yours or mine.
Orientation would say what I really mean
while your choice of diction's what's in your eyes.
I won't miss you all year [ E1 N2 V4 I1 O2 U4 S3 ] total= 17 pts.
But I meant to call [ Z10 Y8 G3 O2 T1 E1 ] total= 25 pts.
Play like we don’t know [ L2 I1 K3 E1 N2 ] total= 9 pts.
How much we know [ C2 O2 L2 T1 ] total= 7 pts.
There’s a lot to be said
And ‘we all want to know’ –
and to hang out
So we just play word games. Once a year, we play word games.
We’ll spell out our souls worst fears, and talk about God.
I am in such a rut [ L2 O2 V4 E1 L2 I1 N2 E1 S3 S3 ] total= 21 pts.
Will you pray for me? [ G3 R2 A1 F3 F3 I1 T1 I1 ] total= 15 pts.
I forgive you [ L2 A1 Y8 E1 R2 E1 D2 ] total= 17 pts.
Thanks [ C2 O2 N2 T1 R2 O2 L2 ] total= 13 pts.
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Cough - cough - walk candied staple caves
to practice active-ness in ways
up on sandied bubble-wrap
popping the top of a bottled solution:
I'll make the day go by incase
we find a reason why!
You step up to the plate
for the first time in years,
it seems impersonal,
You've justified your ways
since you were eight years old.
Yeah – we're very handy..
in ways we'll never know.
There's no discovery while bitterness is in –
we wait for trends to pass
while fads start to set in.
They say fads never last
but I've seen them stand fast
year-end through year-begin.
While we're popping the top of a bottled solution
our minds are fast at work:
1) that 2% is working hard
2) that past is hard at work!
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In this special episode, I do a deeper dive into the metaphors, feelings and prose in the previous episode's poem: When I Look into the Darkness I See an Overflow
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When I look into the darkness I see an overflow.
I see pain upon pain laying the foundations for love.
I see paint on bricks that wall up that love.
I recognise that love is not subjective, it's offensive enough.
I know this Japanese tile the village painted red.
I know it only comes in blue.
I understand why they did it overnight – painting their rooftops red.
I feel the sorrow that won't stop releasing, slowly recommending
ways we should be at ease.
of life in tragedy that fits some sick organisation.
of life that can't seem to fit things together; I live here, too.
of ways that we will not understand
I don't know what to do:
There's a stream just across that meadow that has a Blue Japanese bridge spanning over it, looking a million years old – but you want it in your lounge. Visiting seems uncouth at the time, but offense can be put aside. Standing on top, it starts to slide back and forth, the planks will slide under your feet. Reality is rapidly waning like a crane swooping closer and closer toward the largest minnow in Lake Toluca. The minnow doesn't know – just like you.
When I look into the darkness I see an overflow.
The pain covers up any way we could ever divulge
the pain... roping 'round a wooden bench.
The pain is subjective, it is not love. It's offensive enough.
Your swiss love wraps around the rope, around the bench;
coating the whole thing in cheese oil and making it holy.
The pain is subjective to Holiness.
Around the rope, around the bench, around the coating
of the cheese. Holiness.
in cursing things that need cursing.
in throwing things that need throwing.
in screaming out "recognition to the profane!"
Here's what we'll do:
Start to run. Don't worry about catching up – the planks turn red, but don't stop. Don't worry about progression. Swoop down as if you were the crane. Reach the ground and pluck up each plank as they turn red: Red, swoop, one. Red, swoop, two. Red, swoop, three. You're also the biggest minnow in Lake Toluca.
When I look into the darkness I see an overflow.
Painful things stir up our emotions.
Painful times are a lot like starry nights –
in that the pain can be overwhelming.
I want a black permanent marker to scratch it out;
describing the scratching as it scratches.
I want the marker to become me and then run out of ink
ink wells up inside me, staining all I know.
It starts to kindle some new chance for hope.
With playing games that come from your heart.
With diff'rent ways to play those games.
With finding friends that love your games.
What happened:
You can't be two things at once - so the planks picked up and arranged themselves in ways that are beyond your understanding. You can't swoop underwater and you can't pickup a plank if you're a minnow. The bridge is gone, but you're still standing there - pretending to be a crane and a minnow. Red, s
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There are so many shades of red
on one projection slide.
Given enough butter and fat,
a chocolate cake can slide...
along the length and width of a room
on any given intensity-
on each red ray that is projected-
on every colour, in fact- it can.
A high-speed, clicking, monotonous tone
will show you how this cake can move!
With every snap of plastic forms
a beam will push on our beloved
across any length and width of space,
back and forth- seeming redundant.
After each "PATT!!" is distinct
we'll use controls to feed our mouths-
we'll push and tap to feel content-
then chew and gulp and start on sounds.
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In this first episode, I describe the design of the book, and then read the back cover and Introduction.
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