Signifying nothing

It would have been simple I want to type "she said" next And I know why (And she knows why) So I switch screens Click over there The other screen Where the song is That I want to hear All full of remind A simple song Two chords and the Drums Guitar beaten Such wandering beauty Such almost But I am back here You never left, did you? Screens are masks where Images of past remind Us that we don't ever I am back here But I am over there And I am under there Where the music slides Almost imperceptibly Together You won't get it Will you? It is just summer. Hate to bring reality into it But I've got to figure out how That works. You're still there. Almost

It is Burns Night. I chose a Burns poem that didn't require me to try to emulate (and therefore slaughter) a Scot's accent. On a side note:  my great great grandmother apparently didn't speak a word of English when she met my great great grandfather in Canada cerca 1840.  She was born in Argyll.

Carrie is Bigbrownhouse on flickr. You too can contribute to the Mobile Poetry collective....call the number over there -->.

So I have a new toy...a Bamboo tablet thinger.  I bought it on a whim as a self-given birthday gift, but I've been inspired to do it by Hightouch and Snyder, who have (apparently) made excellent use of similar (or the same) devices. After taking in the tutorial, I dived right into a program that has baffled me for years:  Adobe Illustrator.  While listening to the Jazz trounce the Nicks, I came to realize that Illustrator really is meant for devices like my new tablet.  I also realized that it really isn't all that different from many other Adobe programs I've used:  you just need to find what works for you and ignore everything else. Being that my drawing skills are suspect, at best, I decided to start with some word art: If you don't recognize it, this is a haiku by Basho--and a rather nice one at that.  I've never been a fan of my handwriting, but I actually wasn't bothered by this rendition. Still--with a program like Illustrator, I felt compell...

Snyder Mahler offers up an unexpected spin to the mobile poetry project:  an excerpt from the LucasArts video game Grim Fandango primarily written by Tim Schafer .

Friend Cordelia offers Naomi Shihab Nye 's "At the Seven-Mile Ranch, Comstock, Texas" for your consideration.

Come on people! I've done two now. Pump up the volume and add your own poem or favorite poem. Dial +18019300674. Identify the author of your poem and its title, even if it is by you. You might want to identify yourself too.

A new SigNo feature for you: mobile poetry! Join the revolution and call in the poem of your choice to 801-930-0674. It can be your own work or a favorite of yours. Be sure to identify the author (even if it is your own) and the title. I reserve the draconian right to exclude any submission I see fit. The submissions will be featured here on SigNo. Ok, Megastore, Dr.Write, Middlebrow, Snyder Mahler, Counterintuitive, Cordelia, Kendrakoo, Antistrophe, & Sleepy E I'm calling you out in particular. Don't be some kind of poetic wimp and flake on the mobile project!

Float Like a Butterfly Originally uploaded by Theorris My travels took me to Louisville, Kentucky this week. Louisville is an unassuming city. Like most American cities it seems to strive for the gaudy and the fantastic, yet at the same time seems to want to maintain its simplicity, while trying to understand its past. The mighty Ohio river borders the city to the North, and my hotel was smashed up against its banks. Despite an unfortunate decision made decades ago to place a major highway along the banks of the Ohio, the simple quietness of that river overwhelms any human presence. I watched a coal barge saunter down river with nary a sound from my 16th floor hotel room. The passing traffic was no match for its silence as it carried tree branches the size of small houses across its muddy depths. My room looked out on Louisville, toward the river and, most prominently, the Muhammad Ali center, with its pixilated boxers who noisily float like butterflies and sting like b...

Kids these days Originally uploaded by Theorris My normal week-day walk usually takes me past a statue of Parley P. Pratt. The statue was erected in his honor to honor his contribution to local history (and place names), since he built the first more easily passable road into the the Salt Lake Valley through the Wasatch Mountains. His fame as a builder of roads is celebrated in the statue, rather than his scandal-tainted death in Arkansas (q.v.). To be fair, however, some see his death as martyrdom, and I would not wish to fan the flames of religious acrimony. Pratt was certainly a person of his times, and Mormonism was particularly controversial at that time. Of course no one deserves death for either their religious beliefs or for seemingly scandalous behavior with women in Arkansas. Whether Pratt deserves a statue, is certainly not up to debate for his proud descendants or for most people in Utah, it would seem. Statues certainly been erected for much much much worse huma...

Catkins in Early Spring Originally uploaded by Theorris My new house causes me to walk farther to reach the bus stop each morning. My walk, however, leads me past various interesting trees and plants. The other morning, I noticed that one of my gnarly favorites had set its catkins out. I stood, taking pictures of it, and nearly missed my bus. As the city flew by, I wrote the following: Cat paws on brown twigs, Warm against early spring wind, I forget my time

So there is a moment in Kaufman's Synendoche, New York That the hero's alter-ego throws himself off the top stage And dies a horrible death, face down in the fake concrete Skull crushed to oblivion for nothing more than the love Of the box office. Or is it the girl whose name is on your breath? Or is it the woman whose house burns continually And kills her, eventually, or the wife whose shower Runs continually, who is never there for you to clean But you clean, anyway, and sleep in the walk in Hoping to avoid the disaster that is imminent He cries, before he takes his deadly doppleganger plunge "You don't see other people! You only care about yourself!" Or something like that. Where does that take us? What are we to say to such A suicide plunge? How do you feel about yourself these days? Have your noticed skin lesions? Strange moles? How are your bowel movements? But it is all fine, because the hero survies The hero moves on in his existence of me and me And ...

I failed to expalin That signigyingnothing Is one long poem

A friend of mine really hates "singer/songwriters." My questions to you, oh reader, is 1) what exactly is a singer/song writer? and 2) do you agree? Is it just the solo act guy who stands up there on his own, exposed to the world, and strums or strokes his musical instrument for all the world to judge without the collaboration of other musicians that my friend objects to? Is that really where we are in music these days? Is it the solo person who makes the difference? I can see that. Not to get all pornographic on your asses, but that does seem like, at l east, watching a Tijuana sideshow or, in the macro a modern-day bard who should have remained in the safety of his or her coffee shop . (Pause.) But to retain the pornography, all that solo singing and songwriting is about getting laid now, isn't it? (Pause.) Maybe that is the ultimate objection to "singer/songwriter" music. It is either self-indulgent or just about seducing whomever you want to seduce...

A poem by Walt Whitman criticizing science, of all things. Imagine that, poetry not getting along with science:

Here is a poem of moral turpitude by 19th century American poet Julia Ward Howe read, dramatically I might add, by yours truly:

We are lucky they employ us at all In our eccentric clothes And disheveled hair "What do you have to offer?" They ask with slavering lips Mindful of the last bit of beef They ate, now stuck in their Teeth "What do you have to offer?" "Uncommon sense and a liking For clouds that rim blueberry Against a cold sky." A stupid answer but it seems to Impress. In the meantime they find a Toothpick.

This song interferes with their Ability to love Wait a minute, that's not how It is supposed to be Songs are supposed to seduce Songs are supposed to kiss You know the song of songs? Are you the hart or are you the doe? Do you kiss with the kisses of Your mouth? It takes a minute to recover from that A soul ticking minute.

A truck lies by the road Like a wounded deer Slammed by an automobile Into next week. It is the wind, however The wind with a certain Gift of force lifted twelve Tons of steel off the road And slammed it hard Into the unforgiving berm Suddenly it is next week For the hospitalized driver And he, unlike a deer, Survived.