Category Archives: salamander yellow pad

Archives: salamander yellow by pd lyons


yellow

 

 

Category Archives: salamander yellow pad


April 14, 2012 (part one of three)

 
Marshland for breakfast, eggs flavour of cooking oil, on the side bland lumps the texture of hard cooked potatoes, cups of generously refilled brown water slightly hot. Maybe they sold the place? Been coming here since the 80′s and never so bad. Now its a real cant say it was good but cant say you didn’t get it cause it all was there and it looked exactly like it was supposed to kinda place. Back in Beacon Falls, back when Beacon Falls was still a town not cut off from the world by the new routing of the highway. Route eight used to go right through the centre, traffic lights pedestrians, shops, school buses and all. There was this place there used to serve Yuban coffee when Yuban was about two dollars more that any other can on the shelf – 100% Columbian when it meant something. It was good and made strong and people used to talk about it, tell other people about it and how you could get refill after refill. And the food? Good basic fare made as if they were going to eat it themselves. They also made chocolates there. I remember it was around Easter the last time I was there, all these baskets lined up under glass, all made of chocolate as if they were wove out of chocolate and rows of eggs, chocolate eggs with windows and you could look into little scenes of pink and yellow sugar activities. I was working with Joey then. We were on the road five days a week covering the state of Connecticut,  spraying trees for gypsy moths.
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Irish Winter part 3 of 3 Hitler Heaven


 

true power - when dark and light unite

true power – when dark and light unite

 

 

Today a bit of sun. Enough for the house plants to take note and be watered. A load of laundry to be hung, after repositioning the tipping over clothes tree. Put on another load of laundry, meditation by the window incense and Buddha nature as far as far as far can be…

Now fire stared table cleaned I sit here typing again. \Work some poems? At least continue edit for Bassa Nuvo. Maybe work on s’little russia, its needing major over haul for the Basso collection.

 

My mother went to Italy before she died. After she died I don’t know where she went. Despite her Roman Catholic insistence, dragging us off to church, vigil candles before the infant on her bureau, even my fathers contribution on the Irish side… I did not believe in heaven or hell or very much in that god of the bible – a little to human in his despotic approach to governing. I’d a probably signed up for the republic n joined the Lucifarians. But when my mother died I remember praying, crying, hoping at the risk of my own self like “god if you’d take my mother to heaven I’d gladly go to your hell”. Like please let her find what she believed in. Let it be the way she thought it would be. I don’t care about me but let heaven be heaven for her. You know a variation of take me instead. I’ll hope heavens real even though if it is then hell’d be real too and well I wont be surprised if I’d end up there. But what about my mother would heaven be a place without her child? Maybe. But I think she had some of that old time stuff you know you get to meet your loved ones again in heaven. I guess it could get complicated like you die and want to see your loved ones in heaven but what if since you left them they became evil? Or what if the ones you loved didn’t necessarily love you? What about that gorgeous one you had a crush on but couldn’t stand you? Is one persons heaven another persons hell? what about Hitler’s mother? Maybe she loved her son? Maybe she will love him forever and in her heaven he’d be with her? What would the neighbours think of that? Maybe each person gets their personal heaven and all the loved ones are kinda illusionary? Like the part of Hitler before he got evil would be the part that would be with his loved ones? But then wouldn’t heaven be based on a lie? Fuck it. All I know is I loved my mother and I wished and continue to wish that she was not too surprised by what happened after she was released from her cancerous body full of suffering. All I know is I’d gladly go through hell if it would help the one who gave me birth be where she deserves to be.

 

May all beings be free of suffering wherever they may be whatever they may be – now.

 

its not my birthday any more. I’ll never be 52 in this lifetime again. so how different is it? I like 53 for some reason. I like the sound of it. 52 seems kinda white breadish but fifty three – a little like a sharpened steel. Fifty three, seems to prowl through the environment, seems to be a more sure footed creature, confident of each place it puts its feet, able to look things right in the eye. No regrets.

 

you cant go with your thoughts even if you try.

you only think you can.

the thoughts rise pass fall

each begins the cycle anew. you think you can go with them making plans worrying defining good n bad self n other but really

no matter how profound or elaborate no matter how many seemingly stung together, the weave no matter how intricate precise is only woven out of smoke.

your true nature cannot go with thoughts even if you try.

 

 

 

 

Irish Winter part2 : pants (intimate)


There is no fire and its cold. I ,usually so phobic of the cold ,today don’t mind. Welcome cold let me feel the small pain of knowing I’m still alive. happy to be so. of course I’m wearing my fingerless yak hair gloves from Darcy’s, Michelle’s over sized brown jumper form Jones – over a denim shirt over a maroon tea shirt; a pair of Levis brought back from last years trip to the states, blue wool walking socks, n a pair of regatta waterproofs. And why is it a pair of pants? Is each leg a pant and therefore you have a pair? shouldn’t it just be a pant? It must be that each leg is a pant, therefore I’ll put on my pants. maybe originally they came separate? Un-joined like long socks? Pair of socks makes sense. Two make a pair. I put on one my sock then the other and if they match it’s a pair. If they don’t is it ,or are they, still a pair? Can you have a pair of unmatched socks? Maybe if they’re not on you they’re not a pair but once you put them on they are even if the don’t match? I’m wearing a pair of un -matching socks? or is it unmatched. I’m wearing a half a pair of socks on each foot? anyway why a pair of pants, I’m not wearing two pants I’m wearing one blue denim Levis pant.

 

Lapwing is editing a new collection of poems for publication. I had thought it might be ready this year which would have made it 8 years since they did Searches For Magic. Its been about 10 month now I think, more than a baby. Oh well horses take eleven months. In fairness I sent Dennis about 200 poems, basically the contents of caribou and sister stones that I self published via LuLu. Well I’m grateful for his interest. was hoping he’d print soon so I can attempt to do so public reading and have product to sell. The LuLu is mad expensive for shipping and blah blah blah.

 

I have been too intimate with my life for regrets. I was happy for that thought, it freed me from the erroneous belief that life must have regrets. I have had dreams that didn’t come true, things I felt so sure of that turned out to be not so, but how would I wish away any of my closest friend, my own life, my own self experience? If I were to have only one minute to relive before I die – would I waste time saying OK but not this one not that? I liked the little boy who lived for a while w/ no siblings, I liked the shy boy who got slapped around in school, I admired the courage that teenager had to drop acid to smoke dope to fall in love without any restraint to write a life time of poetry, I felt protective of the young man in jail, scared for the one who registered for the draft, and for the one who loved women, who loved the whole idea of women who loved the exploration of the most mysterious beautiful being called women and who mostly always ever seemed to create pain…

I have been too intimate with my life for regrets. It is a beautiful day, it is a good day to die, it is another day deserving gratitude to all who were my mothers and fathers, all my teachers, benevolent and wrathful formal and informal.

I am here in this beautiful land with my beautiful partner and our beautiful daughter and today I’m 53 years old. woo hoo!

 

there is a beauty even in the grey

there is a beauty even in the grey

yellow headless yellow – from historical sewing (and I)


 

Thursday, February 28, 2013

yellow yellow headless yellow

from: http://www.HistoricalSewing.com

 

Irish Winter/ part one – w/ Richard Brautigan


 
 
 
 
 

Irish Winter part 1 with Richard Brautigan

 
Part one
the Richard Brautigan of my youth brings me not fame and fortune artist type but rather here,, un wanting to go to work, un wanting to start the fire; for some reason not minding even this Irish cold of a stone cottage on the soft outlands by some ancient fairy tear drop lake. older than children of lir, older than swans, sorrows of an age of ice surrendered, scared into a valley of wind and soft reeds  such as where stones were heaved into boxes for the filing of small human lives. grey bones of long dead glaciers and the twisted muscle of earth’s resistance, cut to fit by long dead humans . Stone of bone encapsulated ice age how many days? Days of even now the open air mid winter warmer outside than is in. the stone locks in its glacial ghosts. the nights even by an open fire, filled with whispers of returned revenge. I could fit a small car into the fire place. In America it would be romantic. Here I suppose sometimes it is , in the summer if we get one, in the golden autumn a few days now in November. To talk about the weather an insincere politeness, unless you were out in the rural lands where then it was a true concern as well as a way of showing friendliness. These days now to talk about the weather reminds me of cliché Si-Fi stories something from the 50s, you know nuclear winter or disrupted axis due to alien interventions or atomic testing or maybe an asteroid? Trees are growing within the Arctic circle. The north pole will soon be used to mark a golf cup.
 
There are places to sit inside the hearth. Places to sir by the cast iron crane that once held the iron handles of iron cooking pots, sway them in and out back n forth like the three bears, like Hansel and Gretel like a witches cauldron bubble and trouble, like tiny Tim like a dream of every long gone discoverer of open fire. the heaviness of stone, iron, cold, fire, turf, these were the places that only famine and/or bailiffs cold ever lever you out of. But now I am here from America, wondering who the girls were in the photographs with Richard Brautigan on the covers of his books. wondering whatever happened to people I used to know back in the USA, high school days and can I ever not wish justice on those bulling bastards of my first year? ah but today is now and the sun catches little dangling crystals off the candle holder small rainbows brief n glorious across the table up the white walls into the dark beam ceiling disappear because of marauding clouds reappear dance renew as my typing slightly shakes the table.

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salamander yellow pad/ wilkes barre


Wilkes Barre/ salamander yellow

 

Wilkes Barre Pennsylvania
 
At the liquor store. Clos du val in tow. Automatic sliding glass door. Woman standing on the other side. Wants to get in. Waits for me to come out. They never work for me she says. What ? The doors. Oh, says I, maybe it just got stuck. No she says. automatic doors never work for me. Watch. I stood out side and the doors closed and she tried but couldn’t get back out. Wow I say amazed. So that’s your super power! Yeah, she laughed, but not very useful. She turned and went off to shop for alcohol. I went back to the hotel told Michelle all about it. No she didn’t think it would be a good project for research. But i kept thinking about that woman and what was in her body that could stun those automatic doors and how super powers weren’t always a good thing and how good this wine was gonna be…
 

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilkes-Barre,_Pennsylvania

New Riders At The Palace/sunset show


http://salamanderyellow.blogspot.co.uk/

New Riders At The Palace/sunset show

 

New Riders at the Palace. Four dollars fifty cents; Sunset show. Hanging on East Main hour n a half to go. Around the corner by the Shamrock bar, light a joint and walk about. Pass by two guys from California. Walk together for a while passing the joint between us. They go into the Palace Hotel. I stand in line for the doors to open. Hare Krishnas make the rounds up and down the line say hare Krishna, hare Krishna and they give you a cookie or something sweet, sometimes give you a book or a booklet cool pictures to bring home and paste up on the wall trippy coloured god-head with many many many blue tinged girls.Turns out the guys from California were in the band one was the drummer and the other played steel or pedal or something i cant remember now cause its over forty years gone by. Used to tell people it was Garcia but i don’t know, i mean i didn’t know who they were then so how could i have ever said for sure at any point?

the yellow book


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so i decide to write again.


 

Monday, February 11, 2013

so i decide to write again.

10 Feb 2013

2 coffee morning. Yesterday lost the wallet. Somewhere between here and Navan Town. Feel real stupid. Its a rather large hold a check book size. Fortunately no cash, no credit or bank cards, no bank info at all… but my passport,US drivers license and Irish drivers license and also the little booklet from the Buddhists recording the date and my Tibetan refuge name. Anyway am amazed at having lost it. Thinking, thinking where, how, when could it have happened, lost nicked. Today I’ll have to retrace the day going to shops, garda station, parking garage security. Pulled the car apart, looked all over the house, checked every possible jacket pocket you know until realizing i must depend on the kindness of strangers, i must accept the fact that I’ve lost my identity. There’s no phone number in the wallet, the address on my Irish license is from three years ago, and i cant even comfort myself that maybe someone finds it and wants to get it back to me. Anyway its the feeling of stupidity, the feeling of why me, the sense of helplessness and the temptation to berate myself for this act of senility. So 2 coffee morning. All over the world it would be a 2 coffee morning or it would be if every one had that option. All over the world people are losing things more painful than my loss of an identity of a person who doesn’t even exist anyway.

 

April 14-15-16 part 3


 

April 14-15-16 part 3

Muffins and earl grey at Beth’s Special Teas. Cape Cod sunny Sunday wind pure fresh walk the little strip East Sandwich shops, still missing the Herb Shop but our gratitude is high for the tea Shop haven from all manner of Dunkin Dodo swill. Hot chocolate for the child. What to do with the last few hours before the drive back to Connecticut? Paradise Liquor for a 1.75 litre bottle of Bombay for 31.00. Sam’s fish shop on the canal bag of shelled scallops large as your tongue. My eleven year old daughter fascinated by the lobster tank. Can we get one dad? Can we? No. Why not? Cause I don’t want to kill one do you? No. Well then what’s the point of getting one? We could let him go. Now my daughter wants to do a Buddha thing and save this creatures life and I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to talk her out of this do I? She gives me that look, the crux look, the scan of a child reading every inch of my body, verbal and invisible language, searching for the parental cue. Is this an acceptable idea, is it not? Remember whatever you do will affect me for the rest of my life. I stall and say well you’ll have to use your own money. She says OK but its in the car. And I must  surrender with, that’s alright give it to me when we get back. So she picks out Lucky the Lobster. Out to the Jeep fish out a pair of work gloves from the back, use the Gerber to cut the bands from his claws and we all three walk over to the edge and I toss him into the canal. She can see him swimming – he’s OK! Just before we drive off seat belts belted everyone ready small fist full of single dollar bills reaches over the seat – here dad. And I think how big is the heart of a child. And I take the bills stuff them into my shirt pocket and say thank you.

 

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