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Young Again

March 17, 2012 by LUmansky


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

 

 

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A Model

March 13, 2012 by LUmansky

The great gorgeous of the hollowed will suddenly tank. Sweetly, canaried, we will crook our way through the skimming.

If  thrown:

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.

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Little Red

March 4, 2012 by LUmansky

When the stove called to the kettle, she clicked         [send]

She waited to [reply] but was cautioned that [home] was down a long dark path; where the [end] was dark and the trees [shift]-ed in their claim for light.  Where the wolf [cntrl]-ed the beckoning of good in the woods and she felt she should [esc] She [backspace]d herself into something lyrical. Dreaming of another person; an action of living and [enter]-ed the house by the stream where she felt founded and felt safe, there, in that sweet-mulled and [scroll]-ing place beneath the [alt]-ernate sky.

 

© Umansky 2012

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It is a Process and an Action

February 29, 2012 by LUmansky

I.

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.

II.

 

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

is un-named.

 

what parentage?

                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

like good-little

bulbs.

 

© 2012 Umansky

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The Shallows

February 21, 2012 by LUmansky

 


She watched the borrowing. It was a great and the night-lost soared above. No one was around to put her in the heavies. Until she began to double-swallow.  Soon, it was too many.  Too many words. Too many wordings. Too much to hold in. Capillaries                 popped. The curled, uncurled, and then curdled. She tried to run from the docking of light, and put her belly down, down on the shore. But realized she was on it.

 


it wasn’t something learned

or borrowed from a neighbor.

 

It happened; the way accidents happen.

Coming up for air

 

she stopped thinking of myths

she became the thinking.

 

she stepped back

onto the shallow of drift

                                    and undrift.

 

Breathed

            prayed

 

the river would be sisterly

she palmed the very-smooth

 

*

 

But, the river knew.

                        It knew. 

The water distorted

her long-hands.

 


 

 

© Umansky 2012

 

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Le Maison des Lettres Fantastiques

February 5, 2012 by LUmansky

 

They were craving for more and wheeling for meaning. To open a place of their own. It might have lead to triumph, if they hadn’t wolfed all the accents: the flounderings and the groundlings. A round letter ate a flat, then a flat ate an accented, then one whispered, Viva the Revolution.

 

One held a banner under his chin.  One played a flute in the corner. One practiced marching at night on the lawn. One was vain. One got the boot.  One brushed his horse, ready for battle. One wrote love letters. One filed invoices. One memorized the Bill of Rights. One braided and unbraided their hair in the mirror. One dreamt of a brighter day of equality where all members would be free.                                                                                                                                                     

One fled.

 

They were all in-betweening, all careening and just believing, They were all lustfully-bleeding for an inn of their own.   A claw-footed tub; a window seat with ruffles; a canopy bed, and of course a hot plate. Then, the meaning came a-wheeling. A feeling they were stealing, and then they were  suddenly craving more. 

 

They were ruthless and borrowed monies from the grocer. They paid bills at the bank, and scuffled in alleyways and side-streets. Their knife-fights were calculated and contrived.

 

 

Blood was spilled. It stank. It stank bad and badly stank. They could smell their time was coming. They could feel its cool hand at their door. They wanted to be inviting and humble and kind. They wanted a guest. They needed a guest. They put an ad in the Town Crier.  They taped signs to lamp posts, to school buses, and to dogs.  They sent carrier pigeons.

 

They did not discriminate against other variables.  They replaced and painted the gutter. They hung a sign. When the TAX ID came, they felt justified and justiced and justly appointed as bearers of the night.

 

© Umansky 2012

 

 

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They Entered the House through the Window

January 26, 2012 by LUmansky

They entered the house through the window.

Exploring the methods of beams and glass. They tinkered with the blinds and danced in the curtains. 

Their whiteness                    so abstract                              that    it seemed to  cast a                                 shine down the hallway floor.  

The leader had a repertoire of roles.                               She,       half angel                and                      half moonbeam began to familiarize herself with the landscape.

 

                 This was a woman’s house, she thought.

 

The others waited. Gawking over the silverware in the kitchen.

H twirled her hair round a fork, while

G fell in love with her reflection in a butter knife. 

P was found with her nose in the breadbox, sniffing the odor of sweet brown bread.  

Having picked out the raisins and dropped them on the floor, she hurried to the stair where the leader was petting the daffodils on the banister.

They carved their names and wingspans into that banister.  Then marveled over:

                                                                                                1) a woman’s hairpin on the night table

                                                                                                2)a long hair on the pillowcase,

 

Then, they remembered remembering the woman’s voice.

One  sang; while another tried on the woman’s dresses.

The leader didn’t like the so-called intervention. 

                                                Let us not bask in their glory, cried She,

                                                remember, we too have a nation to remember.

 

She was not happy.  They all nodded in agreement.  Then, the woman came home.

They lifted to the ceiling then out to the pointed corners of the roof then floated off and away from the house and into the air, and then                                 like electrically,                    like a current, they were:  gone.

 A raisin was dropped on the front porch.                                                                                     

 

© 2012

 

 

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Plenty of Character

January 23, 2012 by LUmansky

There was a day when type had weight. A kingdom of gold.

Their arrival was timely

                and untimely. 

The once tangible then got                          casted.

 

Roles became electronic and chained. 

Time ribboned-up and weight became                    light.

It involved stubborn effort.

 

                                                                Call it:   survival of the weighted.

                                                               

 

*

 

Sometimes, one letter calls to another letter.

A small light flickers code: on, off, on, off. 

One letter urges another to be pressed                against another.

 

Paper trails are left behind.

                                                               

                                                                       And ink blots.                    

                                                                                                                      And glimmerings…

*

It is a thing of beauty and a beauteous thing. 

 

 

There will always be a call.

Touch means its real, right?

 

 

[WAIT!]                                                They are calling.

 

 

 

If a choice was made. I’d choose the aural.

© Umansky 2012

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Storied

December 14, 2011 by LUmansky

The conversation included a dead person talking about “the loosed.”

Must is better than should, they said.

Then, they turned a shoulder and began to naturalize

                                                                                           and mull.

 

It must be about ________________, they said.  It must be about ______________.

A finger shook.

Then the lights went out and

we felt wind-hatched.

If it dies – who will feel the story?

Who will kindle the tale in bed with their daughters? Who will salt those close corners and worsted spines?             

 

To know it is not the same as to hear it.

The heard tale never reached here.                       

                                                                               

                                                                                                                                [or here]                                                             

The scrabbled life is still understood over-easy.

 

 

No one wants this in another style.

 

I want what is storied.

 

                I want every move:         Front, back, side, diagonal, in a shimmy.

                Will the day come when the story is inside?

 

 

I want to dedicate this to what’s coming.

But you, you should know what’s out there.

(c) Umansky 2011

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The First

December 9, 2011 by LUmansky

Out of that small naked, that small, very small, naked space, came a charm of feature; a charmed-feature; at a bare-brokened bough.

The wormed balm of pity, the sail being now past, now was closed in the four; closed as a door  is closed when left slightly ajar. This must make. Must make; must-must make it:  best. This must make it: good.

This tang? This tuft?                 That tuft?  This curdled snare and hair? This golded sweetness so plain in the palm               and plump in the midwaist.

 

                        ‘Eat of us,’ said the moonlit thing.

 

We swallowed and the swallowing went on        and on      and on.           

The swallowing went on for eternities.  Centuries.  Time zones.

The moans slid through time. Into the depths of the deadweight. Beyond the beyond and to what doesn’t compete with the dark; and what doesn’t compete with the stars.

                                                             

 

(c) Umansky 2011

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