1/21/2017 0 Comments Four Poems by Jenny GalipoAbout Memory It’s a strange feeling when you’ve lost your shadow. when you can sense it’s fleeting desire as it looks at you from around the corner. as you look at it and say hello and mention abound affirmations, something like bellow’s beak breathing in the smell of a barnacle’s branch. your shadow picks up a phone and starts calling this callous country. you tell it to ask how concentrated this century is on coagulating their consciousness. there is silence. the silence is ceremonious. this unknown has a diaphragm of dice. a pair that are thrown diagonally. your shadow is displeased to the degree of a distinguished decimal. It runs. your friendship’s been flattened and flanked. it takes off all forward like a feather with faithful fumes of grandeur. it starts laughing like a giddy grandfather who’s giggling at a familiar ghost. And then it disappears. Memory has been kind enough to supply me with an equal imprint of each of my parents genitals. this memory comes from the mundane ritual of bath time. I have a vivid collection in my mind that shows me how I first remember a penis and vagina. a series of torsos drenched in water and soap, holding the illusion of a toy. I was sitting in a cafe sipping tea watching the english subtitles of the game show jeopardy when I had this flashback. the image of my father’s penis burned through my mind, such a strange nostalgia for the beginning of my existence. soap suds slowly falling down through pubic hair creating a texture that resembled the universe. water constantly coming in and rinsing the soap suds in different directions, it was a fanciful dance of water. I must have been only five years old. it was eye level with me the entire shower. I was eye to eye with the muscle that gave me breath. I marveled. when Jeopardy cut to commercial the parental genital image of my mother came next , burning it’s way from memory to my cerebral cortex it was similar to my father’s. meditation in a mirror My body is a glass container swallow Deep Deep guidance from the internal labyrinth temples and time a steady race towards center a loop of glowing warmth something is in the air all that you internalize an unlocked dream from a fountain of ears years to make a portrait in the moment cubism center head Deeper an ecosystem to focus all love attention and crude thoughts walking on a tight rope to cross the river parading on your spine drones white kidneys sex 1,000 wives only one true color blue pigment that is so pure if you leak it into your eyes you’ll melt blooming miracles out of every orifice of the body the body as a glass container the mind a diamond intersection with the sun and it produces the internal warmth for large cedars winter summer fall spring out of order there’s order for certain things for specific reasons order spring summer fall winter it becomes a cycle a tropical cyclone blows through wiping away everything everything resurrection of a cycle a shallow swallow from the bridge of your shadow hydroponic sound the oceans deep rain pupils of Galileo’s eye extend past the shadow’s pound passing standing Deep breath a keep sake of being wild and free the shallow swallow contours your soul nervous system in the cosmos kiss the trees find empty spaces filled with horses horses running free between the cubist’s hand you me we create profiles of each dynamic note threading together in the physical plane when the plants sleep rapid eye movements slumber vivid dreams constant jazz of amorphous notes About the investigation Silverware- knife, fork, sharpened finite to start. language takes a struggle at the description. turning simplicity into complexity through itself. cosmic games hum in the mind space, every moment of your existence a fragment. in the manifestation of your comrades, that age old question. who am I? eyes of serpent. Music from the atmosphere influence it to move. it creates a circle and the undisciplined apply themselves to seek a bluff in the sleeve. philosophical paradox piping from the nostrils, the religious inhale that sinks into the atoms and cushion of existence. life is a celebration of itself. a jam session. the crave for volume adrenaline and movement. sounds need less reason. the lines of fraction fade to drifting in time and space. Eugene says use your tools. take this hammer, chisel and glove. the alien smash resonates and reveals resonation. I tell this tragic moment that a mass will bring a hollow to mesh through the space to synchronize vibration. Madonna and her saints climb out of the panel dragging cheesecloth, and they run. The diseased gesso distorts their haloes, and they’re out to create the most non-preservable 14th century painting. About the internet I’ve got this feeling. I know your out there. It’s growing stronger. It’s pouring from my veins. buffalo swept and they’re fired off towards the internet. the internet is nestled away under fleece . It’s attempting to breath. It’s got this feeling and it knows your out their. It’s erecting and it’s harder now. the surrounding limber grows stronger. the buffalo run quicker towards the tribe your tribe in the internet and you hope to die. it wants to whore you to limb you to accumulate the algorithms, to scope beyond you, Ralph Waldo Emerson leaves a message- inner light . it looks into your fears and catalogues your heart. he argues about the mind and brain a supreme cookbook. he wants to lip with the internet. heartburn the fleece comes off and it rubs the femur of the buffalo. mating for a host. the feeling is growing stronger. searching in every window, I know your out there. tail bone stasis and cross-eyed oasis glossed over at you buzzing glow deep intelligence feeding every frenzy my fractured patience sunken to the wrist adjacent to the window the micro-squares that have a name like pixie. the numeric combination. I know your out there searching window seven for catharsis. but dominant stasis and headache abound. the phenomenon of the mind, the platitude of nature melting like a jar of honey. the internet uses it for sex and toast, all buttered up and you’re the same time recipe. Bio: Jenny Galipo is a multidisciplinary artist surviving in San Francisco and Los Angeles. She has done projects for city art walks and in multiple performance art spaces among collaborating artists, where she fostered the raw parallels between the play of action and the act of creation. She tried really hard to finish her B.A. in Art History from San Francisco State University, but has been more rewarded doing social work in the arts with artists with developmental disabilities. With writing, she tries to capture fragments of life.
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