This land of which we speak

Apple, Apples, banana, Bananas, beat poetry, fruit, Fruit bowl, Limes, oranges


Yeah I am gonna like this one because it’s full of beat and rhythm no matter how or why – as the man said to me earlier today “there are plenty downtown, go there” and wondered what he meant and how he meant it. No difference to me since I hear too many pieces of counsel and advice known as friendly and natured – but find them intrusive all the same. Last week was a little bird who said – ”you want to know what I think” – not really – but I can get around to a small discussion once they have my brand back.

So I am driving and working myself to a hotter point of expressive twitches and feel the fingertips of a stranger pull me back – my shirt is stained from wiping my mouth and sweat still clings from walking my two or three depending on how I count – which way the map is headed. It’s stranger than dreams, you know the street scene this year, this summer of heat – the women cling to sidewalks and melt in blinks of the eye. I was a very lucky to notice not being very occupied – with eyes on the road, reading signs for sale and sold or rent.

In the mirror a friend of mine is a face of all things French and all foods that make the mouth sigh heavy. There always is food for memory and drink of the street – so stains cling – I don’t care. They are scars of memories – experiences and little beats – the heart, the heart – fusion reaction, no? This is the rhythm today – winds tear the beads of sweat – dripping stains on pavement. Sweet beats of prey who watch from windows at the corners of mouths that eat and cough – bits of paper napkins – late night people with hands-down belts who watch the road and the killers.

The people who beat to death, a funny way of expressing love, huh? Somewhere in this night which crushes all expectation – sometime in this evening which beats down, beats down – I find the little coin that has a flip-sided tails and gives good heads. It shines and twinkles of storied mythologies, famous foot in mouth for bold and lousy truth-telling – stories that match the hyperactive hawks that circle, circle and circle.

I dive under and swim the beat, pulse the rhythms of famous tidbits – the dreams, the expected demise of promised honey, this land of which we speak – so often – so mute.

2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

10 thoughts on “This land of which we speak

  1. First off, I don’t know how I missed this one but it’s nice to read your Beatnikerie (my made-up word) And I love the fruit bowl! Secondly, (another made up word, I think) Why on earth am I the first to comment on this piece one a month after the fact? Hmmmpfff!!
    Haven’t seen a post in a couple days so I had to stop by and check on ya. But then I remembered you saying that school/work was starting up for you this week. Hope all is well with my favorite modern-day Beatnik/artist.


      1. Me too. I read Dharma Bums and other Kerouac in my early twenties (the early 80’s) and even though I read them more than twenty after they were written, I always had an affinity for the style and the times.


      2. Oh you are young and love the fact that these works never lose their appeal, romance and dash. These artists ushered in the 60s, which helped make what is good now, better.


      3. 51 (don’t tell) Lucky for me, I feel 25 and always have even at 12. LOL My poor parents. Other than a few new aches and reading glasses I’d say I’m pretty content – not to mention knowing myself better than I ever wanted to.


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