Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
Joseph Quinela (www.footknots.com)
Here’s a sneak peak. More photos coming soon…
When Boys Become Werewolves
When boys become werewolves
they come back stronger,
after the very soft life
feats relate to feats
say, more to me next week
and falsify the known.
Even the readiest marks
can run. Harvest, here. And tell me, how
and let the lunar lie. Rustle here. Lie to me.
One moon. Four stars. Two girls. One car. One wish. One moon. Four Stars. Two girls. One car. One wish. One moon. Four Stars. Two girls. One car. One moon. Four Stars. Two girls. One car…
© Umansky 2012Follow @lady_bronte
The Human Animal and the Story Animal play on the page.
Sure, they poke and wrestle, but they mean well as nicely as they mean.
But, are our what ifs truly universal? Do all tales compute?
Sometimes, there is a collection of trouble in the way the story functions and plays.
One small lie gives the Story, a ball and chain, and the Human, a crossbow.
The human animal and the story animal play innocently.
The story not only sticks, it mesmerizes and binds. Its potency is pure.
We are hard wired to change the world, but are they? Is the story?
In this life, are our what ifs truly universal?
Universally speaking, what if our stories are not created equally, and our compulsion
to invent is merely at rest in our bindings or unbindings to this world?
The human animal and the story animal play on the page,
and when one bleeds, after their picking and poking, nibbling, and kneading
do we really need a winner? Isn’t blood, blood? Is it about free-will,
or all just gobbledygook? In this life, are our what ifs truly universal?
Let’s instruct this: I’ll assist, and insist. Both animals are proud beasts.
The fabric of this Neverland of ours is linguistical not analytical. Envision
the tale, it all begins in sounds: Horse. Bear. Fowl. Fish. Child. GhoulGhoulGhoul
All stories are indivisible by all. They run deep inside this brush or page,
this Brave New Stage, and our what ifs might thieve us.
and the universe may be in on it all
© Umansky 2012
for the humans who might play computers in the upcoming American Crossword Puzzle Tournament
We are mince-meat. The day is past where humans reign supreme. The Doctor is in and he will fill the page without logic; without reason. We all play the game: reading the prompts, counting the letters, thinking of the correlations and the permutations.
Some play the game differently. We recognize patterns. (and I don’t mean window curtains or tabletops). We have knowledge and experience in lieu of calculations and statistics though, a shift in gears can produce a high-speed roadway for the human mind. We don’t need to be charged, unlike our opponents.
We get the joke; it’s funny.
The machines are beating us with our own language – with their fancy programs and their implanted intelligence. Where they are taking us? Gone are the days of pencil and pen, (forget about fingers and digits). They are adaptable, and we, we are creatures of habit. They are resilient while we age poorly. They spot matches *like that* and our synapses just spaz. They say The Good Doctor will “kill the field,” as in level out the playing field, as in KILL THE HUMANS!
What Will Would Shortz Do? (WWWSD?)
Give up and die? We must go forth into that dark night and carry our heads high and walk even if we are weary, and think, even if we are parched and thin. We must be a-w-a-r-e in these electric times…
The hurdle is in the extension of cord versus cord. Spine verses Wire. We can build the strength of body and brain. All they’ve got is little men with little fingers furiously typing code encrypted with artificial humor. We’ve got the life inside us.
© Umansky 2012
Times have changed. Your savy-ness dims, and your disk space just ain’t holding what it used to. Your memory is fried. Your nerves are shot. You’re forgetting your history. You don’t know your RIM from your ROM; Your resolution seems foggy, but, here, take my hand.
Tell me the understory. I will notice the agony.
We’re so used to getting it in the palm, that we’ve learnt to look past what used to be right at our fingertips. If we could only give it more legs. Watch it walk.
Let’s leave the humans out of it. It turns on exactly when I want it to. It’s good at listening and calculating, and doesn’t give any back-sass. All it needs at night, is a soft little nudge into dreamland.
(so, come on give Siri a rest already)
Listen to this processing. It’s computer science. Is it so unnatural to want a little nip and tuck? So, your computer wants a little [Hotspot], and here’s what you gotta do: [plug] in or ship out.
Remember, Beauty is truth; truth, beauty.
© Umansky 2012
The great gorgeous of the hollowed will suddenly tank. Sweetly, canaried, we will crook our way through the skimming.
1/watch the eels slip in and out among the reeds
2/sense the ocular with the good of anyone’s graces
3/hush the minusculed and succulent and render it felt.
Taking out whatever it is we have made here; something grandiose and other worldliness, know that the remembering has grown in me. Through what is ventured; through what is vented up, vent out and vintaged in such tended-tendering that the past is re-imagined in absolutes.
[I don’t want this darkened]
I do not want to be darkened. Or obvious. Or unzipped in how deliberate this sounds.
See the way that this is gossamered.Follow @lady_bronte
The boy is sitting on the plush blue stair.The father embraces the boy on the stair with a repetitive narrative or pep-talk. In his gardening, he is presenting a great inspiration. Down the hall, the mother is sprinkling the wash and putting it in [gentle]. A smile sprouts across the boy’s face. He is about to go to school. Hungry.
The girl needs a source – a yellowing. She’s growing, taller every day, and lean–like the way the sky is leaning on the house. The way the blue is stretched lean like the girl’s arms. She bends and curls herself into the lightened; beneath the chandelier. She pirouettes around the living room sofa. She wants to be starry and glowing. She wants to grow taller in her father’s heart; in her mother’s eyes. She takes off her shoes, then her socks, and beneath each foot’s arch, or mouth, is a small nurtured space. What blisters in the rug-hair is dirt-spent and burnt, but fertile.
The children need
A watering a personage
that will substitute the piece
that will become the story in their life
::the watering is situational::
what is in the end
What spark or spark-led thing
determines the throwing
of light into heat?
of beauty into the slightly-wrecked
the wreckled thing
::the beauty of sub-secretive foresight::
like the way the mother brings the wonderful
to the breakfast table and the children eat
© 2012 UmanskyFollow @lady_bronte