put it in escrow

http://www.jakestephens.net is now alive... no content... but c'mon, I done bought it shore enough!

torpedo hash melanoma

thanks to john mundt over at www.johnmundtesquire.com for mentioning my loquacion location to the wider world. john draws groovy picutures and is a funny guy. and yes i know loquacion is not a word. if you've read any of the other posts, you know that's not a problem for me.

i always worry that people just think i can't splel propoperly.

sure as chimbling rabidity, i'm back to the world at large - keep it real ya'll.

it came from the shower...

where all of my interesting thoughts appear, the water, this sprang from me today:

metastatial reprise

as certain and unchanging as the black to grey moment before the dawn,
when realization colors the sky rosy fingered and eyes fill with sand,
this wheel eternally returns, bringing us back to the same realizations,
over and over and over,
overturning, underturning,
pinning us to the onionskin of life’s appearance like gravity

proof, he calls it, of god’s non-existence is just as certain,
but he knows and i know that it’s just as certainly uncertain:
the path of a raindrop,
a single piece of dust suspended by natural law in a watery cocoon –
yesterday a dewdrop
tomorrow a tear

i certainly awoke this morning, mindful
i lathered and cleaned and rinsed and considered,
awestruck that such divinity should touch me as these words:
metastatial reprise,
fluid, changing, static moments,
renewed and never returning, ever returning

not sure of who to thank,
i thanked god,
myself, water,
casting about for an inkling of existential proof,
soapy fingers grasping fleetingly the mercurial concept,
unable to forsake the implicit notion
that i am, that i will, that i was

and somehow,
that
is enough



-jakeStephens
12.20.2006

less than turkey

stuffin and kibble, now at 13 cents off.
That,
sounded,
so much the better for it
when it lived in my ear

is ringing and swinging from a salvation army bell,
this jubilant feeling of generousity;

the best part about growing old, is growing wise.


studio giblet now has some funky video from the (possibly defunct?) production by fishook films, sltfkr, or, as it came to be called as everyone involved in the project, Ghouls, for as time went on, the grisly reality of what making a movie as disturbing as this was more controversy than any of us could bear - more rebuke in one spurning glance of the public's eye, your eye, than we could carry upon our backs, hunched and doubled from the gravity of it.

But I digress - the trailer was comprised of footage of the stars from a previous underground production created in a downtown loft apartment, as well as some fisheye black and white footage that was grabbedfrom a security cam.

The editing is not bad, if I do say so myself.

Not too shabby. *pat, pat*

bargain chicklets

<><><><>studio giblet now sports gallery number 04 <><><><>

trial by sun

I

a shifting river of thirst,
i but for this dream rehearsed –
go, think but not what of it,
restful, let the live-long but slumber,
i will awake in you eternally–

golden dancing,
a river of sweating flesh,
colder than marble, a granite reminder,
one trance ended, the eyes blinded,
open heart, drum sounding –
here it comes at last, the vision:

II

more than to the point,
i will appoint you
god-protector
a sunrise diadem behind,
a hewn-from-earth tomb before;
all crumbles, all fades,
a short-term mnemonic,
a lost number.

but in this epoch,
you will rule, bending or breaking in the winds;
parched dreams: east will return to west as we all sleep –
to slake that thirst, that immortal desire,
a fool’s game.

in that desert, we all come to realize our mortality,
the palm of that oasis whispers secrets,
the reeds of midas, a pandoran box:
some sights cannot be unseen,
some thoughts are unthinkable –
before this end, to us undone, thy will be thus,
thy will undone


III

love was sand between her fingers,
luminous ocean eyes and naive hope
that things would change,
that he would change.
some dunes can drift and drift
and never change;
absently, in a dream, my lips brush near her skin,
as if to taste a flower, or forever,
as if to drink her in –
what once i thought oasis,
a mirage of jealous hands, a possessive pharaoh;
an impotent priestess,
relinquishing gods and fertile dreams,
for a sandy piece of soul –
relinquishing her heart’s black soil
to the sleepless eye above.

IV

numina, rapid-distant pattering,
you found me there,
a sleeping fool in noonday sun,
a mourning dove,
a seed pod,
the swirling blades sputter and sleep –
your sunlit crown,
hair and tears cascading;
amongst the living,
i will sleepwalk a little longer.

a fitful awakening at the gates of notwithstanding

surrounded by worthless trapping of so-called art,
unable to raise an intentioned hand to create it,
i, oppressed and maligned for the last time, swear it off:

there’s nothing there but substanceless bulwark and vicissitude,
unformed by higher principles,
unable to tell me what transcendence is.

frustrated and sweaty, heady with drink and aged far too much
to retain the subtleties and incongruencies that make up the sublime passage
of time’s feet on rice paper,
where infinity meets inconstancy,
where i rips from the passage,
an after thought, a scrap on the foot passing,

i, a stillborn photoanonimity, furtively trying to understand,
lest you deign to turn an eye,
as all above crumbles, a marginless morass, ungainly, unsupple.

the paper is ripped and i am unquiet, unable
to pass this sphinx

starshine

irreplivacated
literaturgical
miasmeandering
flowfloating ontogenologically
inextroinspectedness
nothigsosacredness
(a life of visions
notnothingnonetheless
susurrus)
warmskinned nightsbody
youagainstme,
sleepingeyes, dreaming sky,
in afterglown slumber

lithe verses

lithe verses

in and out of submission,
holding onto fragments,
the dream vision mirage fades
fumble crumbles.

dissolution of solution,
i lack the solvency to reiterate,
mind numbing, odious particles of
participles leading endlessly into
feedback loops,

tinnitus deaf humming
abigail is that you?
nightingale is that you?

(hummm)

homeric epoch
industrial clandestine
no measure for measure
together in time tumbles

in and out of submission,
this body intones
a song of midnight;
stars caress this naked flesh,
hands explore this twisting cosmos,
cool desire intones:

fragments of foreverafter,
a host of shards
of truth.

major, the be flat miner

studio giblet has had a few new addtions; it is kind of meandering and confusing, but there's good stuff there; once day, it'll be decent showcase.

moreso the pity

studio giblet is now open for business; it may be a chunk of tripe, but it's my chunk of tripe!

insolent solvents

it's been a while, but it's not like anyone stops by. ah well. more's the pity for all of you pukes. the world keeps turning. i've managed to not go mad, and have started painting, and doing other good things. the book is underway. i am singing. my love life is decent. ah well, nothing more to say. i'm going to go watch a history of violence and see about doing some tutorials on maya.

ciao ya'll