Tag Archives: Pablo Picasso

Lost Generation (2)


I no longer wish to cradle you in my arms,
For the body electric is gone,
Reminisces of once held soul mate,
That now seeks life on her own,
Knowing that you had to do what you did,
Without knowing why,
Is precisely why I am moving on,
Why I no longer wish the body electric,
With you,
Abandoned at the moment I most needed you,
When you most needed me,
With reckless disregard,
Self loathing and fear,
I now stand as champion of my own soul,
My own advance,
Creating a new body electric,
Fueled by Tesla, Hemingway and more,
Those voices,
They continue to speak to me,
Smack me, jar and jam me,
In ways you never did,
In ways you never could,
They grow louder each day as I grow ever closer,
To the realization of a new love,
A self love,
So that I may again learn to love another,
The one I now believe I see,
My first love and hopefully my last love,
A paradigm shifted,
By all misunderstood,
These words that I caress just as deftly as I had you,
These words that I twist and turn into beautiful elements,
Of a life worth living,
For in now accepting what and who I am,
And what I did and why I had to support you,
I am free to enhance the calling,
I will answer the clarion call of the giants in my mind,
In the pursuit of happiness and love,
In pursuit of Muse,
She, herself,  calls out for me to listen to the Lost Generation,
Though she misunderstands them and perhaps even me,
Transplant myself back to the age I should have been born,
And that I now live daily in my mind,
Paris, 1923
Over in the corner,
Picasso is holding court with a bevy of ladies,
As always,
A few men try to enter the fray and are shunned away,
As always,
By twirling fingers of fantastic delight,
As always…

Gertrude approaches me first,
Entreating me to sit with her for a glass of red wine;
“As you well know Sir, one of the pleasant things those of us who write or paint do is to have the daily miracle. It does come.”
The words fall from her mouth,
As an entrenched philosophy,
An esoteric Ether that empowers me,
But appear like Victoria or Angel falls,
Monumental in that Stein is always right,
Well,
More often than not.
She continues;
“An audience is always warming but it must never be necessary to your work.”
I ask;
“Do you feel I need an audience?”
“Not at all,” she assures me,
“Just remember, that your words are you, you are your words,
and nobody, anywhere, can change that.”
I deeply inhale my Cuban cigar and find myself looking for the familiar,
Calling out for a scotch,
With that, I hear F. Scott off in a corner;
“Have you proven yet that Gatsby is not the greatest character?”
As I approach I can hear him laughing;
“Surely you are a greater character than Jay?”
“Frankly,” I reply,
“I am not from any Egg, east nor west, but I am certain that Jay is still the greatest…”

F. Scott scoffs at me as a mother a child,
Scolding me for something I have done something in err,
As far as I remember is human, no?

“What is wrong with you boy, it’s up to you, write.”
Pensively I stare into the void between F. Scott and my face,
“You don’t believe it is that easy?”
“Well we’ll never know until you write it will we?”
I nod my head partially frightened but truly elated,
“The world only exists in your eyes.
You can make it as big or as small as you want.”
He says kindly,
“Create the world you want to create and make it BIG…”
F. Scott clearly enjoying his treatise goes on;
“An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation,
the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.”
I fire back without hesitation;
“But I am not in my youth anymore…”
He angrily interrupts;
“Son, you are a writer, you are in your youth evermore.”

Apparently Zelda had had quite enough and as many times before,
As always before,
Takes me by the hand and leads me to an empty space,
Invisible pheromones clashing,
As Muse reenters my mind,
No music is playing except for the soft rush of wind,
Against the storied cobblestones of Paris’ Left Bank;
“He is right you,” she says,
“About?” I inquire.
“His advice to you, is right on.
You are youthful, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Zelda” I say, “Are you hitting on me?”
She replies; “No, well maybe,
yet, have you looked in the mirror?
I have seen twenty year olds that don’t have the baby face you do
and what’s more Jay may, or may not be, the greatest character,
but you have it in you to write that character and the time is now.
What are you waiting for?”

Together we swayed back and forth,
Not as lovers dancing more like a father with his daughter bride,
And Zelda started to hum,
Knowing something was coming I steadied my nerves,
For when she hums,
Zelda hums,
As the Ether beckons,
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise,
erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions,
fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions
and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes. ”
She twirls me gently;
“No sour grapes Sender, live, live, live.”
As I reach the pinnacle of the twirl she releases me…

So I drift over to T.S. who sits pensively;
“You come to us, daily,
or rather it is we who come to you,
we know you are searching,
you know you are searching but I wonder…
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out
how far one can go.
How far are you willing to go my boy?”

The voices in my head determined today to make me think,
As always,
Forcing me into intellectual corners that I’d rather not be in,
Boxed,
“As far as is necessary,” I assure him, “further if possible.”
“You look stunned young man…
the best advice I can ever give you consists in this…
If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.
Be poignant. Be selective. Be you and write.”

The sun had long since set,
Paris revealing that majestic splendor of its thousands year old history,
With deafening shadows and perfumed stains of life,
This was the Paris we all loved,
The Paris we lived for,
The Paris that always exists in our minds,
As we all stood there in a faith shaking silence,
Our talent, ability and joie de vive,
We knew it could not last,
But we would fight,
To the death,
Refusing to grow up,
While trying not to get old,
Though our words may live forever,
We know,
We shall not.

NON OMNIS MORIAR…

With a telling glance and a tip of my cap I walk away,
Over to my literary father,
Hemingway with a slap on my back and a firm grip of my hand,
Looked on with child like wonder,
At the sight of Paris on this most perfect Summer dusk,
“Sender, you realize we won’t always be here?”
I laughed,
As I wondered how a figment of my overworked mind could express,
That he knew better than I,
As always,
How long they would or would not be there;
As always,
“I assure you Ernest, you will always be with me…”
“Not as now…and that is why you must know…
We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
I was a failure and so too will you be,
if you can’t finally unleash the  fuming literary beast inside you.”

He continued;
“Every man’s life ends the same way.
It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. How are you going to live your life?
How are you going to distinguish yourself?”
He repeated this line over and over,
As always
For what seemed like hours,
And Paris slowly transformed into Laos,
And I am brought back to this place and time,
So that I can finally distinguish,
Myself.

The voices,
These voices,
Those sing the praises of a life worth living,
Are my daily reminder,
My daily escape,
And my daily reminder,
That we are all put on this earth to do something,
Not just anything,
Something,
Whether to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever it may be,
And should we refuse to answer that calling,
Our lives,
Will be less than they should be,
Love, Family and the words,
The voices of the Lost Generation,
Are my clarion calls to a brilliant masterpiece,
And I don’t know what I would do without them,
Save,
That I am sure I would go mad.

SDM

Lost Generation (1)

https://senderupwords.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/lost-generation-found-love/

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Lost Generation (Found Love?)

  

If I could cradle you again in my arms,

Like these past weekend,

A lifetime shared in beautiful moments,

Collected,

Feel the body electric between us,

Soul mates now advance,

Or is it depart,

Apart yet together,

Knowing that you feel you have to to do what you’re doing,

Without knowing why,

And refusing to see the truth

I too must now move on,

Progress to the conviction,

That it is no contradiction,

That this can be,

Sing my own body electric,

For you,

For the rest of the world to see,

Let the voices in my head,

And the Ether,

The giants of my craft,

Use me as their conduit that I may produce,

My epic,

These stories,

Unearth for the world,

The universe,

The truths of these demons,

Those come dressed to me in tuxedos and ball gowns,

Entreating me to dance the love hypnotic,

Can you be hypnotized,

Captivated,

Enraptured in these emotions rare,

A virtual green fairy, produced,

Inside my own mind,

Expose that my calling once ignored,

Save for the women of my Muse delight,

Is now the central feature of a life lived?

Am I now complete?
Not without you!

In the pursuit of happiness and love,

For others,

Without acknowledging what I need,

Thinking of the Lost Generation,
Living with them,

Drinking, eating and partying,

My delusions,

I can feel Zelda’s breath on my neck,

As she whispers sweet everything’s in my ear,

As I wish you would, and have,

I can hear Pablo as he twirls his fingers,

Explaining the abstract,

To those that will never get it,

But he will get them,

He persists,

Determined little bastard,

Note to self;

Become a determined little bastard,

Gertrude takes me by the hand,

Walks me to the Seine,

Waves her arms dramatically and says;

“This is the river of your discontent;

Let it ebb and flow,

As true as the words you write,

And you will find,

Find you will,

The answers that you seek,”

 

In the corner F. Scott and Ernest are laughing,

Drawing me near,

With their alcohol blemished wisdom,

Just as my own,

The sage like discord you’d expect from giants,

Of personality, spirit, mind and life itself,

Ernest in earnest,

Says to me;

“Go on Son, the world is your oyster;

It is time for you to find a pearl,

A pearl you must,

Travel far and wide,

Inside your mind and in the world,

Find your voice,

Your voice,”

F. Scott scoffs;

“My boy,

It is time for you,

Time for only you,

Live gloriously,

Fabulously,

Relentlessly,

Find your inner playboy,

And reveal to me that Jay is not the greatest character,

Reveal to me that you are the chosen light,

Reveal it to the world,

They are waiting.”

In unison they declare;

“She is waiting for you… you just need to find her.”

So I smirk,

As I realize that my joy,

Is in these words,

My love is in these words,

Abundant and without end,

Just as my love has always been for you,

Proverbial and literal.

As F. Scott finishes Pound rounds the corner,

Slaps me on the back and says;

“Wisdom they impart,

Is only that, which you may find,

Your fingers dance,

Your mind is a beautiful tangled and intertwined tango,

Easy for you,

Now you must find your flamenco,

Do with these words,

What you will,

Go wise young man;

For you are one of us,

Truly.”

With that,

I am brought back to this world,

To this time,

The present,

Where I must find my way,

Find my way,

To excellence,

Personal greatness,

Where I can find you,

Literal,

That we may both shine,

Basking in the glory of love,

Of life,

Of uncertainty,

And find that I may triumph,

In spite of my black dog,

The curse of depression,

Repressed,

By you, for you, with you,

If you’d let me,

What if man never dreamed of the stars?

Never dreamed of flight?
Of going under the sea?

Of being a family man,

With love and a true life,

What more matters?

To wit,

We all raise and glass and say;

“LIVE…”

SDM

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Bittersweet

The bittersweet,

Less chocolate,

More, irony,

Delicious torment,

Out of my greatest joy arises my greatest pain,

As with the ascent of emotions true,

So too upsurges the wave of my Black Dog’s howl,

Like the screaming baby I hear,

Do you?

Like a wolves cry on a full moon night,

Calling out something unknown,

All the while feeling the awkward presence,

Seeing the face, faces,

Of the decisions that had to be made,

As yet understood,

And infinitely painful,

Bittersweet,

The air is thick with the sweat of high stakes poker,

Though there is no tell that can reveal,

What we both know,

We both feel,

We both show our hands,

Though close to our chest they be,

ALL IN,

Calling out to each other,

Even if only through the ether,

Known,

Finding that the course of true love never did run smooth,

I must admit, accept and allow,

You to find your own way,

A fate worse than my own demise, or so it seems,

Called out as I have been,

For an argument with Hemingway and Picasso,

(“No true love ends well” and

“Every act of creation is first an act of destruction”)

I had to be destroyed by love,

In order to create love,

Flirting with the danger of Zelda,

(“I love you anyway-even if there isn’t any me or any love or even any life-

I love you.”)

The danger of you,

Our situation,

Situations,

Instant bond formed,

Lifelong,

As I reconsider who and what I am,

On a light cast,

Lingering,

Like the memory of your luminous smile,

Tongue in cheek,

Endless dimples and peace signs,

Keeping me going through the days,

These dark and heady days,

Past, present and future,

As a new time nears,

With the passing of the hours,

That I can finally unleash the hound,

Hounds,

Let loose the ills that have plagued me,

Plunging intensely into wave after wave of your hugs,

Even if only as a memory,

Relieving myself of the delicious anguish,

That has haunted me all my life,

Strife,

Abandonment,

Loss,

Struggle,

From the mouths of babes,

Promises made,

Broken,

Though my promise, ever true,

Always,

Battle after battle,

Inner destruction,

Outer costumes, one after another,

To hide the true nature of my character,

Hoping that none could see,

But they do,

You do,

As now I press further,

No longer filled with a wanderlust,

But instead satisfied,

With initial surrender,

Complete,

For you,

For me,

For us,

Fly Hmong Key, fly…

For the family I believed was to be,

As I know where this yellow brick road goes,

And I will follow,

If you will lead,

I will lead if you need follow,

Pulling back the curtain,

To find understanding in translation,

For, in your gaze,

I find,

Myself revealed to myself,

I and I and I wondering if perhaps, this time,

It may be… different,

Here and now,

Instead of there and then,

Just not now,

Not here,

No longer trapped by the shadow cast,

By a past I can not change,

That I must embrace, face and comprehend,

If I am to arrive at destination me,

With journey you,

Will you journey with me,

Hand in hand,

To another place,

That only we shall know?

Together at last,

Let us walk slowly,

Purposefully, with grace and delight,

Sloughing off confusion, fear and mistakes made,

Marching toward an endless night,

Howling like new lovers,

At our moon,

Swimming in our sea,

Tranquility,

As the ladies of night,

Destiny, Fate and Serendipity cry tears of joy,

As they only do,

With love found,

Like this love, perhaps

Between girl and boy?

 

But not the now,

For even some things that are meant to be,

For reasons myriad and as mysterious as love itself,

At a certain moment in time,

This moment,

Just can’t be.

 

It is said if you love,

Set them free,

If they don’t come back it never was,

If they do,

A new forever will emerge…

True love, never dies!

And I will always love you Hmong Key!

SDM

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The Bittersweet

The bittersweet,
Less chocolate,
More, irony,
As with the ascent of emotions true,
So too rises the wave of my Black Dog’s howl,
Like a wolves cry on a full moon night,
Calling out something unknown,
All the while feeling the awkward presence,
Of something as yet understood,
Bittersweet,
The air is thick with the sweat of high stakes poker,
Though there is no tell that can reveal,
What we both know,
We both feel,
We both show our hands,
Though close to our chest they be,
Calling out to each other,
Known,
As I have called so many times to the Ether,
Argued with Hemingway and Picasso,
Flirted with the danger of Zelda,
As I reconsider who and what I am,
On a light cast,
Lingering,
Like the memory of your luminous smile,
Tongue in cheek,
Keeping me going through the days,
Past, present and future,
As a new era nears,
With the passing of time,
That I can finally unleash the hound,
Let loose the ills that have plagued me,
Plunging intensely into wave after wave of your hugs,
Relieving myself of the delicious torment,
That has haunted me all my life,
Strife,
Abandonment,
Loss,
Struggle,
Battle after battle,
Inner destruction,
Outer costumes, one after another,
To hide the true nature of my character,
Hoping that none could see,
But they do,
You do,
As now I press further,
No longer filled with a wanderlust,
But instead satisfied,
With initial surrender,
Complete,
For you,
For me,
For us,
As I believe I know where this yellow brick road goes,
And I will follow,
If you will lead,
I will lead if you need follow,
For in your gaze,
I find,
Myself revealed to myself,
I and I and I wondering if perhaps, this time,
It may be… different,
Here and now,
Instead of there and then,
No longer trapped by the shadow cast,
By a past I can not change,
That I must embrace, face and comprehend,
If I am to arrive at destination me,
With journey you,
Will you journey with me,
Hand in hand,
To another place,
That only we shall know,
Together at last,
Let’s us walk slowly,
Purposefully, with grace and delight,
Marching toward an endless night,
Howling like new lovers,
At our moon,
Swimming in our sea,
Tranquility,
As the ladies of night,
Destiny, Fate and Serendipity cry tears of joy,
As they only do,
With love found,
Like this love, perhaps
Between girl and boy?

Like it’s the first day of my life…

SDM

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Blade of Grass

 

Walking through an imaginary park,
With what you would call my imaginary friends,
(though their words commune with me daily),
Hemingway was carrying a basket,
Really just a code word,
For anything filled with booze as we approached,
The meadow was soft and inviting,
Hazy,
As in a dream,
(fitting no… for that is just what this is as is life)
Zelda and F. Scott as per usual standard operating procedure,
Were dancing about like two love sick children,
(how I wish to be a love sick child for all the rest of the days of my life)
Their love propagated in equal measure,
By a steadfast admiration,
And empty bottles,
(perhaps a word or two if they could stay sober long enough)
Picasso had already set up his easel and was painting something,
Abstract,
The cubes not making sense to me yet,
And truth be told,
I wondered if they ever would,
His sly smile lighting not just his canvas but also this meadow.

Joyce, Eliot and Pound were deep in conversation,
Wondering how spectacular the vistas might be if they had some opium,
From the corner Picasso yells out;
“Do you want some?”
The ignored him and continued their loud and verbose considerations,
Gertrude and I were hand in hand,
Like a mother and child,
(her caress moving me to my safe place)
Swinging our arms to and fro,
When a glint hit my eye,
So powerfully that I was stunned,
I could not move,
I was transfixed,

for I saw love’s face,

realized,

in time,

this time,

now!

Stein asked;
“What is it?”
I dropped to my knees,
Putting my head neatly on the hardened ground,
As tears welled up in my eyes,
I pointed to the blade of grass,
Just one simple yet affirming blade of grass,
Like none other I had ever seen,
Even in a dream things seem unreal if they are too perfect,
And this blade of grass was just that,
“A blade of grass?”

Without missing a beat I pleaded with her,
As a boy does his mother,
To join me on the ground,
She bent down,
Placing her hand on my shoulder,
Which I took as a cue,
To unravel the secrets of my twisted soul,
Reciting as I do,
Whitman immediately came to mind;

“The wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.”

Upon finishing,
Hemingway had set up court,
And passed a series of drinks around,
Gertrude summoned them over,
As tears fell from my cheeks,
I wondered if one might be so fortunate,
As to live out the rest of its short life,
On another blade of grass…

Each in their own way asked,
What it was,
Why I was so enraptured,
Why such a thing as a blade of grass moved me…

You’ve all heard me ask,
Where is God?

Hushed hums and hahs,
Yeses filled the air.

In that reflection,
That little glint of dew,
Falling to its ultimate demise,
Is the prism that reflects our lives,
That reflects our passions,
Our concerns,
Our hopes and our desires,
Right there,
As I pointed.

There is God! There is my God!
Right there,
In that specific blade of grass,
In this moment,
In that droplet,
The mysteries of our lives,
Of our place on this earth,
Of the universe,
Is right there…

The collected giants joined me,
In weeping,

For in that spectacular moment,
We all felt,
God,
He/She/It/They,
Embracing us,
As humanity can never embrace God,
And love,
Love ruled the day,
Fulfilled and fulfilling,
Love!

In a dew droplet on a blade of grass,
Missed by most,
But not us,
Not on that day,
As the enigma that is love revealed,
The promise of life,
Hope,
In one simple blade of grass,
My eternal love,
And hope;

YOU!

SDM

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Again I Find Myself

Again I find myself,
Dancing to the end of love,
Cohen paying for a trinket while I consider the possibilities of infinite,
As we walk the Left Bank,
My friends,
Once again gathering for some liquid wisdom,
And a redefinition of what it all means,
Passionate conversations,
Pablo already working the lady at the other end of the patio,
Naturally,
I’d expect nothing less,
F. Scott wastes no time;
“The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaieties, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.”
And it rings more true,
Than ever I have known,
Hemingway giving me a dirty look,
As he’d missed me on the weekend,
Not available for his sage talk,
His delicious interpretation of modern prose,
And what it means to me,
Instead tied in a beautiful mess,
Enthralled and elevated to a new Paris, perhaps modern Paris,
Rather than the Lost Generation that lives inside of me,
Tangled up in blue but not like Dylan,
Beyond Comfortable, comfortably beyond,
New habits forming,…

Zelda seems annoyed by F.Scott,
Offering another voice inside my head,
That somehow makes its way to this page,
My life an open book,
Like the masterpieces they all have created,
She scoffs;
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.”
And as I quizzically look at her,
To undress the mental slaughterhouse she has thrown,
There is no need,
Though I wish I had informed her that there will be no retractions,
Emotional or otherwise,
Not from me,
F.Scott annoyed enough for those collected,,
And Gertrude was quick to my response,
“It is not what France gave you but what it did not take from you that was important.”
And I laugh,
As I realize they are all right in their own way,
Defining my life in elegant prose,
That knows no time or space,
For everywhere and everyone I know,
Unlocks the mysteries of the moveable feast,
As my life has only just begun,
In earnest,
Finding again the strength,
To be me,
Even if their voices dance in my head,
Like a feverish salsa or meringue,
In earnest,
Yes,
My moveable feast.

SDM

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