PILAR ELIZABETH POEARTiculate.

Ethnically Blue.

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 10:35:00 -0800

I speak strictly of a problem. The delineation of payroll/bank account (actor) juxtaposing the implications of scene. Scene being set to incite the critical thought process’ regarding emo-based perceptions of morality. Because, ultimately—no matter how the story seems to be told, it ultimately has little to do with the creators true notions of guilt.

If the maker of a grossly earning film feels bad—what, exactly, is so-and-so doing to improve the situation?

It’s one thing to tell a good story, it’s a different kind of thing to sell that story. And how?

Is this “guilt” even intellect (property) the story tellers have rights to sell? Who’s story is it? Why do only certain versions of the story get heard? There is no one trying this case. So, instead, I’m talking about it.

This is a quick write response to Dimas FB comment regarding my beef with the CGI selection in the most recent boxed office hit—Avatar. Beef that the movie wiped out a host of “minority” actors. Granted, there were a few minor roles for “minority” talent, but the starring cast retains these all to familiar classifications: primarily—pale European stock, secondary—spice-like scatterings of earth-tones. But to fit this all into one Campbell’s condensed can or nutshell: my deepest beef stems from our indoctrinated, life-long exposure to these sincere “apologies” from our very real, very present and very powerful oppressors. Oppressing, these days, simply by the by-products of Empirical expansion; the signing of checks, from ancient amoebic bank accounts—casting of roles, by cuts, edits and deliberate implementation of technology, placement of people; props across stAges.

My beef is shaved off the bull raging from that big screen projector. Is it guilt for their big-bull hit nature which buys mother-ships, tanks, jets, hot Latina infantry copter pilots and rights to relocate the indigenous? One Big Bull’s hit, hot off the screen and fresh into the 3-D goggles streamlining the mind’s eye, after another. And, in the end—we all pay the price, which is roughly a twenty-spot, give or take a few for new specs.

I’m not talking about every pale-male. Only the select, and dysfunctional. It may have been a mistake, oops. It needs to be corrected.

"Let them have Healthcare."

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 10:00:16 -0700

“Let them have Healthcare.”

- Pi.

Welcome to my glass house.

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 08:07:25 -0700

Welcome to my glass house.

Video

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 08:06:00 -0700

the new addition a surprise really, seated thereamidst the...

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 23:08:00 -0700

the new addition

a surprise really, seated there
amidst the thorns and blades

of grass blowing breezewise
one of many, really

new additions, planting roots
to grow, to thrive

to wither, and fight
or succumb

folding upon the self
crawling back into dust

y dusk

or, rising like this
armored lotus
replacement

exoskeletal undeniability beautiful; dangerous

dangerous

Salutations! And please, have a look around… Storefront:...

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 00:11:00 -0700

Salutations!
And please, have a look around… Storefront: under construction and coming soon.

apropos.

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 09:57:00 -0700

a perfect cup of coffee
an equally apropos mug
push scents up & swirling
towards an infinite form
of horizon; these lines—we make up:
with eyes, make sense of all;
these angles… perspectives
pulsing… crossing: swing
like Tarzan
upon ropes of binding
particles from see
to shining sea

"The past waits for no body, the past is but an image. One view, from one stance, where we once..."

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 13:54:52 -0700

“The past waits for no body,
the past is but an image. One view,
from one stance, where we once stood.”

- pilar elizabeth

"Your peace will come when you choose peace."

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 13:50:43 -0700

“Your peace will come
when you choose peace.”

- pilar elizabeth

los angeles, aubade you fair well

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 14:41:00 -0800

goldinfifty:Thick molten snake’s coiling and crossing himself compounded across the southerly valleys; unraveling, thinning, misted coastal and mountain ranges as Luna reaches silvered sliver higher — still. Mother spreads herself black. Filial veins of light driving her. Not a living camera can capture the images, in justice.

Boy do they try.

Intelligent Design

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 14:17:00 -0800

God, I love days of feline fancy. One day without work and school is cancelled on account of a greater plan. My time spent hopping along the border of writing my final and whimsy; swimming lapses from laptop to showers head, stopping the bath to perfume my feet, shaving other places twice is nice. Apple lotion and dressing upon the slow crackling hearth because we can’t afford to clean our ducts and the crisp winter is breathing through our walls more efficiently than the generally dominant streaming days of light shuttered out.

Christmas tree lit because my family crashed across our living room floor, down comforters and body pillows tiding them toward Earths Happiest Place (or so “they” say it is) and I haven‘t unplugged (their night lights) nor quenched their fire (both) casting fire light shadows jitter buggin our adobe holiday cave. Using extra q-tips after baking chocolate chip cookies. Making a 5-course breakfast spread lavish for the special guests arranged fresh by revolving pots of coffee and silver-needle tea with wild-flower honey.

Holding all of this moment solid in mind. Forced moment strings of benevolent Nature, perfections of being, informing us through coincidental nurture that the universe is built and spins in our favor, despite our timely, linear, indoctrinated resistances.

Wrenched reminder that a kitty is built to preen and nap while dogs must gnaw and rebury their bones.

Be the light, she says.

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 13:58:00 -0800

Be the light, she says.

WHILE POURING MR.BUBBLES INTO A WARM BATH

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 19:30:00 -0700

I wish we didn’t need a heart to live he speaks… why?
Because I don’t ever want us to die -he says with sudden tears in his eyes.
How do we die? i’m not sure… i’m still trying to figure that one out.
Is it because we get sick? sometimes, or old… i think our thoughts just go somewhere else, is all.
like when someone goes and you can’t see them because they are away, but you still know them.

I don’t ever want you to go away…

When I am gone I will look for a way
To honor time well-spent together. I will build you a book of why
And, fill it with them
Eyes
And you. All
Utterly piercing moments will be etched out
In pains of glass not unlike the one I once sharpened against a trailer’s hitch out
Behind my Tia Lena’s house when I was 4 or 5 chasing 20 tiny spectral ponies while my mommy was away
For hours, like I am — these days. Only now I chase spectral sheets of green along with my blossoming desire for all
That is creative in me to be put out in some shape or form… and then there is you and tiny babbles brook of Why?

There is a black hole in the eyes
Of those with the “gift of see” them
Gaping void’s… wedded crater’s with steam fogging up spectacles where eyes once lied. Pity them
Us, driven to read the wor(l)d’s of others and maybe scrape some out of our own
Eyes
Until they are scar®ed away.

We find a rhythm in each passing day dance in cosmic rotations slammed to a halt by the whying
Divinely holy perception of the child. Within or without as we rise sleep or fall
The only thing I am certain of is that this beauty is all
For them.
The innocents. I see the pork and the spending, the temple, the fence and the race. Don’t ask why.
You are to old. Your time has come to dig your way out
Of in visible rubble. Gravity is Myth & Magic the truth is the invisible weights a cross our backs A way

To keep our bodies warm by fire nailed to feet blue skies and clouded veil lies upon our perpetually streaming eye
CriesLyricsRainBabbleBrooks & Towers Fall generation to sonset rise a different face, same staged trick upon us eyes
New scene old thoughts erased… they tell you to put them all
Away
The thoughts which drive us blind to veiled sight. The thoughts which make us stand a part from them
Alone in sunny world of perpetual dark… look around my friend, child, you’re mine to see now, look out
At the colors as they fade to black and remember why

You cried as a tiny child missing the previous womb, eyes baptized by creations fluid sack of mothertears and you dreamt why?
Am I hurting, frail, weak and all alone? Why this darkness? Give me a way out.
And you came, & you come with formulated nouns scratching at darkness as it closes in on you becoming a light, a star & a way

out.

Photo

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 16:38:00 -0700

I Write.

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 13:25:00 -0700

I write in response to the words of others.
My madness is not self conspired, it breeds
With the connective nature of this world.

Your feet speak to me in two-step forward
Patterns; and their counter. I dance with you
In the silent recess of a girl’s voice projecting

Her eyes upon the world.

"Even the articulate or brutal sounds of the globe must be all so many languages and ciphers that..."

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 13:25:00 -0700

““Even the articulate or brutal sounds of the globe must be all so many languages and ciphers that somewhere have their corresponding keys—have their own grammar and syntax; and thus the least things in the universe must be secret mirrors to the greatest.””

- St. Paul

Touching softly his thin delicately

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 16:49:00 -0800

sleeping arm, fluid— the arm like tenderness
drawn out of soul cupping dovechild -sleeping-
-evoking this traveling tendernest.
Awe found, nestled wove-in length of armwing’s
fibrous, clean, soft, featherskin. Un-writ. In.
A humming birdsong inside… locked beauty
-You- an un-writ key. Tiny dove
am not I? Good enough to capture tenderly

The essence of what it is to Love— for
that lies in the experience of heaving
chest as gravity pulls his beating heart
in to mine— head nestled between the hollow
in my neck and the curve of my breasts and
we dream of taking to sky… and then we do.

While I was (getting) busy-- looking for (The) meaning.

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 15:46:00 -0800

“I have recently considered colloquialism
as cannibal— This method of communion;
bringing some of uscloser while it is
simultaneously tearing u s a ll a
part.”
-elixa miel.

With in Language—
are many hidden languages
defined by the speaking
interests and values.

We no longer say how it is,
relying in stead, upon
self-defined perceptions
of Truth.

We stand behind names—
turning our backsides to reason.
We idolize what is past—
in ways denying us our present gifts.

We idolize what has passed—
in ways which demolish progress and demonize our neighbors.
We are Un r a vel i ng
any chromatic weave coming-itself-together.

Un r a vel i ng the process tethering us to any bright future—

All Coming Un d o
ne.

Justice
Vengeance
Destruction

All bleeding in to one… re(a)d… see

With in Language—
are many hidden languages rewriting the same book—
building walls: book upon piled book—
one on top of an other; each book with its interchangeable
persona’s: “I will trade you my Devil for your Desire”…
Demons exchange with Obsessions. (What you might reference as a Poem:
I could call an Exorcism.) All of these different names for the same th(mean)ing.

We are so progressively fucked; collectively dividing
our self from ourselves— paradoxymoronically:
waging wars based upon a misuse of the word—
becoming ourselves: (The) Weapons of (Mass) Destruction.

And in war there are no winners,
only glorified losses carrying—
the celebrated losers crowned by—
pompous death and its pageantry of ritualized destruction… This is US in prayer.

We have been given this day— training
to take our words
for granted. We are no longer aware
of what it is that we are apt to say and are forgiven our trespasses.

This is the day that the dictionary has become My bible.
This constant battle has transplanted my roots
in this institution— so many times, to re(ally)
learn the lesson:

I must look beyond the words—
To find the mean in g.
I must fuck with order—
To def(end)ine my self.
And perhaps, by paying close enough attention:
I will make it out— in
tact.

While I was busy—
looking for meaning… I managed to find my Voice.

god.

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 19:30:00 -0800

You that is my mother
       And my father—
My house, home and garden—
       You— that is— my raging seas
       blows in bubbles— life with planets as bodies/core—
       You— whom houses me
              Realize me
                        On levels far beyond these I am able to comprehend of
You— whom is— my house, home and garden—
       My raging seas— of indifference—
       blow in winds— of change— diasporic salt’s from waters reign—
               into rivers— of
       You whom I navigate my dinghy through— and on— and in
              Asking for Arks— in metaphor ms…

       I who choose to see— You— in my mirror
              And my sea—
       I whom Am— My House, and Home—
       Tend in Garden— blowing bubbles into my sons warm and moving bath
               I
                   whom houses Me— realizing self and all that is mine
               responsibility— but not Mine
                     Own— I   whom am— a flea—

Your house— home and guarded Inn; a soft place
       Land— in me.

       I am not indifferent.

Pray through winds— of change— shatter my shifting perceptions— of you—
       that is

               I
                    whom build— imaginary ships— the likes of which
              no storm can touch— carry on— deliver
       Us from You— and to

              You in rapture of the worship of each other.

                     You— I love— in raged in-differing metaphors—
                     Whom I love in metaphor—
                     Whom I love In
                     You— Who am I
                                   Love— In
                                   Loving— You who
                                   Am I— in Love
                                            With
                                   In You whom I Am

                     You are
                                   Not un-like me—
                                   Not Army
                                               Who are you ?

                     You are Me.

This vehicle runs on caffeine... coffee is my gasoline.

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 19:30:00 -0800

Swallow.

Fresh sweet cup of poe

Ive heard its
Addict ive heard
Its addict ive
Heard its addict
Ive heard its
Addictive

Like a fresh cup of joe

There was fire on the horizon at dusk today…
PowderSugared Purple mountains
OilPainted Steely grey clouds
Heavy
Soaked
with silver rain… soon to be
Snow
And an inch or so of flame,
in-be-sandwiched-tween
burning the horizon out
in shades of crymson-golden-crystal-gleam.

Looking— for the line of receding ash
upon those purple peaks, but find none.

The swell of waves on Superior Lake out lined by red crayon
reflecting the fire band dividing heaven and earth.
Flames which hang in the balance bobbing the water.

360 degrees of splendor
36 degrees
my face is burnt froze
and tic
tic
What’s up with this Doc?

Try to let go…

Winter Warmer by the Lake
and firecrackers too—
a skating rink propelled by dancetacular 80’s beats…

Do you ever feel
like an anxious
tic
tic

You know-

Tell me..

What’s up
Doc?

I can’t wake up without my shot
of caffeine—
can’t move without my morning fix
and yet I sit here stupefied
wishing to purge from my nervetwitchous veins
this cackling elixir of electricity
which powers
this days tic tic twitch.

Do not look at me
to validate
you
r sin
s

Do not look at me
to validate you
r time card

Do not look at me
to validate you

I am my own mess to figure out.