The Excursion of Consciousness

the paradigm of imagination is creation

[jfleahy-blog]

Dig that amber grain pale glow of pain misunderstood nothin’ plain, simple, or good just the frail dimples of worn, wrinkled walnut wraps simplistic humane treasures entrapped

oh, wooden wanderer redden your rhubarb root 

[jfleahy-blog]

Cash’s Mississippi Leech

that brown fuckin diarrhea mud webbed between eucharist  fingered disinterest cooling tasting warmth playing bloody knuckles support

sacred heart bramble briar’s chart pierce the forbidden hours devour plasticine concordant opalescent hours

conceal painful furious concealed emerald yield.

aorta syncopation inauguration welcome spectral bubbleed-blood

[jfleahy-blog]

I only slither in the recesses boiled pitch calcified and brittle the hot tar caked inside rough pebbled asphalt burning in my green copper pot ever waiting

and steam when I burn the scalp and flesh from a horned skull

[leahyfjohn]

Week 8

I threw a few more pictures on as I missed last week’s post.

[jfleahy-blog]

Sprung

Sunrise glass tinted the lobby by yellowing the pervasive soft night glow and all I could think of were the windswept chambers of my heart echoing autumnal leaves through chalky bricked arches and sweeping out my indifference into the beat of the green performance heard through crashbar doors the gauntleted hand risen from the simply hewn stage trap the extension of lugubrious steel tendon

[jfleahy-blog]

Drunken Song

Tangerine, Tangerine heartache remembered, yet will unseen elegant pictures upon scarlet screen charting a winter's night, source of unfathomable blight I was her muse, she was my sprite, And forevermore she remains my plight

[jfleahy-blog]

Switchback: the hollow Love poem

My mind doesn't work in vernacular and neither does my definition of love emotion and pain and loss and gain love contradicting isn't love it's contradiction but that's a simple as it gets

can't you see the flaws in history the cracks that the past wrought conquest of misguided ideals (though nothing but our own) wallowing in our muddy hogwash fantasies

reminiscing about things that no longer are only leaving doubts about what is

When I say I hurt I ACHE my blood is heavy I bleed lead

But it's you that makes me feel and though you don't make much of my flowery words it unifies my definition it's what I wish for us

but your tracing stares and quipped remarks of unsuccessful loves that make part of a whole beguiles my understanding

You are the only part that matters You're not the sum of your experiences or feelings You've always been complete If you want to write about love write about you and as surely life's a journey one that we don't take alone but it doesn't really matter as long as we've found our 'Home'

I won't tell you how to love this isn't an instruction but I have to feel sometimes because I know that makes life real So here it is for you to see the way I feel in more plain a view but alack switchback my own truest form Unrelenting compassion without revision of carnal illustration vivacity of characterized conception, stained without marred effect tranquility in cacophony periwinkle without primary illusion consecrate in perfunctory existence corporeality disassembled in astute invention non-contradictory complementation  Love: the Fable of Imagined Reality Bluebird ensnared in crimson tethers ambles and shifts and tears it's feathers calloused digits untwine unravel the universe nothing but soaring be the love

[jfleahy-blog]

Pop pOp? Bang baNG!

I am screemin at the breeze origniatin the MKE's obsolete in MKE stressin on 43 aching for a cup o' tea, never alone but for a single key depressed in MKE desloate in MKE

every now and then caressed the transversal again I'm all alone til I've been stuck watching anchormen the solace of my den beligerence of quiet glens

praying not to slip the progress on the flip I'm not ready to go escape the ebb and flow, love couched and steep my friend diseased and fragile again  never been a runner up your friends just pronounce me all-fucked-up never understood what makes a person good? I'm rutted feeling a loon a giant stupid goon, torrential monsoon, don't wonder why I'm just a lie

but you still don't have the time to listen about my overdrive to lick me, just stick me and if I happened to crone, would you still disown me? please don't pity kiss me I'm a man on the prowl, and yet I'll not allow us to stick like glue only one I've loved completely, but never very neatly I'm choking, remotely

[leahyfjohn]

[jfleahy-blog]

Loring Park is a place I walk in and around almost every day on my way to get my car out of my parking garage which is about a block or two away from my apartment. As I pass it everyday I hardly ever...

[leahyfjohn]

In an effort to familiarize myself with my new home in Minneapolis I’ve been driving to an from the downtown area a fair deal. In particular I’ve been to and from work a lot lately in the evenings. This is a fairly lengthy process seeing as my car is parked in a garage a few blocks away. This results in me walking around a lot in my process of transit. I like to notice the designs of the new construction and restoration projects which I think look particularly striking at night. I’ve noticed that in a lot of the Theaters typeface is in the bold sans serif styles (in The Guthrie and Orpheum pictures 1-3). Aside from the Mill District most of the buildings make extensive use of glass and metal in their construction reminiscent of Joseph Paxton’s Crystal Palace. This is clearly illustrated in images 4, 8 and 10. I’m finding that most of the designs have utilitarian purposes like the skyway in image eight which serves as a shelter against the harsh winter conditions. Also, in regards to The Guthrie’s design I’m frequently told that architect Jean Nouvel had a desire to use glass to make the work inside the theater transparent to the public. The Riverside Plaza, aka “The Crack Stacks,” or “Ghetto in the Sky,” (9) in contrast to the new construction has the appearance of a concrete version of Piet Mondrian’s Composition II in Red, Blue, and Yellow (see link about bottom of the page for source). Unfortunately, the Riverside was a wayward design by modernist architect Ralph Rapson (also incidentally the architect of the 1st Guthrie theatre). In the course of my research I discovered The Riverside was originally a government funded operation that aimed at a large scale all inclusive complex that catered to a variety of potential residents. However, due to a great deal of social, political and economic issues the project was downscale and was never fully completed.

Sources:

http://www.docomomo-us.org/register/fiche/riverside_plaza

http://spoonfedminneapolis.blogspot.com/2010/07/ghetto-in-sky.html

[jfleahy-blog]

I'm doing this blog for a school project check it out if it's at all interesting

[jfleahy-blog]

The Room You didn't Grow Up In, Filled to the Brim with Objects Mismatched from Your Separate Lives

Growlights in the stand lamps and desk lamp for mom's plants, all of which are in various states of disrepair, she can't keep in the rest of the house or the cats will eat them. To the neighbors it must look like she's growing marijuana in mismatched green and blue pots. Blue plastic watering can sits empty. Grandparents extra bedroom set: dresser, chair, desk, side table. All: sleek light oak wood, Kent Coffey, The Fanfare. Art deco forrest green doe lamp. A white model of ruined plantation home from college sitting next to the Newskin I bought for the cut on my right thumb doing dishes. Husk of a leko lighting instrument pilfered from high school theatre. Stepdad's black puffy chair from his single life. Two bookshelves filled to the brim with Star Wars paraphernalia, childhood books and small pewter figurines. The door is always closed. Too clean even to be made livable by the neutral walls and carpet. So how is it reconcilable with forever?

[jfleahy-blog]

Sandbar Sweethart, Avowed

alabastrine skin sautéed, primrose lustrously misty pedestals drenched in squeaking soft sands helicoid lengths surreptitiously gesticulate perfumed in playful satisfaction

Venus' hydrogenatory hips sultrily salacious the sickle's incubated grained cure  shower of jet black colt mane embroidery entwined in roseate costume

volatile vignette violets the vestigial verbiage 

beckoning, beaming, beholding

beloved

[jfleahy-blog]

Love, the Rudimentary Rawness of Reality

I always get stories about the people she used to know

sophisticated beauties, friends that are the miles childhood companions who are the silent sentinels but mostly it’s the illustrious could haves

those are the people that compose the fibers of your lungs breath, frozen, caught somewhere in-what you want and what you have- between the colorless smoke that hangs over you while you cook stuffed peppers it could use seasoning, my dear

it’s taxing my unfettered affection that unexpressed sensation that is only sometimes pomegranate bliss eroding my own illustrious pangs of yearning it’s not my desire I chose you Embarrassment is the label on the file sub filed under the Romantic Phallicy scribbling scribes scrawling historic sanctions the seasons of history a peeling jewel leaf leaving a myriad of veins, a body worlds exhibit

Being strong isn’t easy When is the last time you cried alone? Because if I did I wouldn’t

[jfleahy-blog]

Chips and nicks of a young man's immortal soul the cracked fatigue of his ribs blossom grow

A warrior poet's lament of lugubrious lawless lapses limitless to the transgression of thought a riddled black ant to the masses

Oh, there's no room to lay sleepless at night pick up your fists and start the fight

A spectral scarlet my memory doesn't serve dreams of yesterday solely unnerve

Yearning for places you've never seen dash your skull on a petty silver screen

[jfleahy-blog]

Ticks on the Timepiece of Traverse

Tall burnt orange grass that passes by the greying sky pulling onto gravel road 60 feet long bumpy tire tracks lazing along a small field head pressed gently against cool glass small white reflections on glasses obscuring view White chapel half pitched roof on stilted damaged by weather wreath hung off center and over door knob ramshackle barbedwire fence divisions of cracked concrete headstones off to the right wool navy coat not doing much to shield from wind rips preconceived notion of comfort half sun soaked soil soaking seeping solidifying silk flowers blossoming pastel pink from bronze patina encrusted urn bare gnarled tree feet snared in frozen lakes insurmountable desire to amble in dusty brown leather boots sunk up to the knee in seas of swaying burnt orange grass

[jfleahy-blog]

Merry Messy Man Bun Monday!

[jfleahy-blog]

Nothin' in the World but a Quiet Mist and Hollow Noise to Drive the Senses to Longing

I have to say, even at the expense of sounding like a blurb from some highbrow, sporting, dropout, ivy leaguer (cough, cough, Kerouac), that freedom is a full tank of gas bought from the last penny you have to your name to get you to another honest day's work. There's nothing but splendor in that storm and mist when you can't see the road ahead of your pontiac. It's danger for a dream that isn't real anymore, it's a risk for what I genuinely love; I have everything to lose. And listening to those haunted, grainy, specters that are the fading generations' emblazoned anthems you can't deny the way the world wears the life out of sterling standards that made progress important, and made the gears that wound against it grind. There isn't a god at the gas pump or behind the service counter, not even a prophet, that's saved for the truckers asleep in their cabs so they can buy their sweethearts, wives, estranged children, dogs, some small semblance of the life they wish they had. To pass the beauty they do everyday and still long for the comfort of a soft place to lay their greying heads and a hook to hang their muddied work jacket on, resonates beyond struggle because it's a disquiet found in their sleep. It keeps me awake at night.