Summer

deadly wine in summer
when there is no rain
in summer without remorse
she sat beside me
momentarily in a park
left me smiling
that stupid smile
in shameless summer
with its withered grass
and suffocating air
she sat beside me
momentarily
in summer
left me smiling
that stupid smile
in summer
in a park

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It's an old one!
(and I only changed it a little)

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The Longness of You


Between the longness of you
And my shortness of breath
Cicadas sing
Our moon falls into shadow


Episode link | Archive.org item | Youtube


Follow me
Twitter: @fqmonk
Facebook: facebook.com/fqmonk
Website: fmonk.quasigentsia.com

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Found this laying around my HD while I was working on Raumo. It was written no later than October 25, 2015, and mastered by December 3, 2015.

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The Critic Frank O'Hara

O’Hara, Frank, ‘The Critic’, in The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara, ed. by Donald Allen (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1972), p. 48
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A Poem for John Kerry

US Secretary of State takes a break from Iran talks to get his bike fixed

Tinkering away in the shop,
A Tuesday like any other,
Rainy and cold, but spring’s on the way.
Idly daydreaming of John Kerry
Between tightening spokes and sprockets
American SoS
Stately, if not majestic.
Negotiations tough you bet
Centers himself by cycling
In the hills
Outside your shop
But something’s wrong
He speaks fluently
Your language
Isn’t real
Until the security sweep
And the cameras go silent
But by then derailleur’s fixed
And he’s gone
Conquering hills

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Outtakes


Franklyn Monk Dronecast 28: Outtakes.

Just some scraps I had laying around. I record as I write and delete everything up to the final recording—to save disk space, and because there’s always too much to review.

Recordings get scattered all over the place, and I’ll loose track of them, and sometimes stumble over them again. Instead of deleting them this time, I decided to give you a behind the scenes look at my writing process. Continue reading Outtakes

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I’m getting less traction for “Outtakes” than I usually do and I think it’s because people assume they know what outtakes are.

Have no fear, it is a fully produced piece with a backing track that will guide you though surreal meditation, while demonstrating a new confidence and growth as tinkerer and toyer.

It playback well over a broader range of equipment and features an industrial-mechanico sample that I’m very proud of—having created it from scratch by generating and molding square waves. There’s also the sound of rapid gun shots from a cold blooded murder, briefly.

The vocal segments (mostly recorded on ancient phones and micro recorders), are chunks out of my brainstorming storming process. They feature one of the best lines I’ve ever written, “waking up neighborhoods, trippin’ over hoes”, which I tease you with for a while before delivering a punchline near to the end—that’s the importance of longer pieces, there’s time for play.

It’s weird how those distinct, disjointed segments flow into a larger narrative, but I did that intentionally—these aren’t just clips haphazardly thrown together to fill space with empty content. It's a full struggled over and loved piece of art meditation for you to dream to.

It also some working versions of Tour Guide, from when I was looking for words and rhythm, which just happens to be the previous track, so you should go ahead and list to it immediately next—it’s short, round a minute or two I’d guess.

And then fuck, that's followed by “I Trusted You” my shortest track, clocking in at around 2 seconds—and it’s that long because enhanced podcasts with multiple chapters and artwork start getting freaky below the 2 second barrier. (yes yes I like really short as well as really long stuff.)

That leads to my next ful-lengthl track “It’s a Hoot!” which it is, a hoot! I tell ya.

Over the course of those tracks you’ll hear the evolution of the I’m an Ally riff.

I say all that, but I did get an unanticipated like from a surprising, perhaps forgotten, source that made me all love and clouds for a few days.

Hat Tip

Image from Wikimedia Commons

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Tour Guide


Once upon a time in a desolate land
In the middle of a
Familiar worldsystem
You’d recognize it
It’s right over there

Stood a tree.

Under the tree sat a poet.
It was the last tree and the last poet.
Fitting they should die together

Thought the poet.
Fitting, thought the tree,
But useless.
No more useless than
Love thought the poet.
And the tree dropped a leaf.

We shall die,
We shall die together
We shall die,
We shall die together

And they did.
The tree lost its branches
and the poet decomposed.

LAUGH

They’re still there
A dead testament to waste
And desolation
For whoever should wander by

The commentator shakes
Its head and says
What I mean to say

Once upon a time
In a desolate land
The last poet
And the last tree
Sacrificed themselves
So that you may

Stare in despair and regret
What you have done

HORROR HORROR

Look at what you have wrought
Look at what you wrought.

CRY

LAUGH


Episode Link | Archive Item | YouTube

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I Trusted You


Sorry for the wonkiness of the podcast last night. I had such a hard time with this microcast.

It seems to have been doomed from the start. It took days to record that one second of audio. No, really. Well, and to mix it. No, again, really. It was a whole thing.

I guess I should start with philosophy and aesthetic…err, my pet-peeves, that is. My biggest pet-peeve is when people, especially podcasters, over talk things. It’s rampant. Continue reading I Trusted You

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It’s a Hoot

Introduction

My twenty-fifth podcast is a poem.
(It's much less repetitive than the last one.)


Main Content

Hello
Good evening
and welcome
I’m Franklyn Monk
I hold deep-seated and derisive political ideologies
It’s true!
I’m an ally
But I see no sense in preaching to the choir
I see no sense in preaching to the choir
So I’m gonna talk on somethin’
Mundane
Or prosaic
Like sunsets
The moon
An owl

Oh, the Moon isn’t her real name
Her real name to too beautiful
Too beautiful too beautiful
Her real name would burn your ears
Or my tongue
Turn you into a zombie
Albeit a good one
That doesn’t eat people
So it continually eats itself
Sunrise to sunset
Sunset to sunset
There’s an owl there
Somewhere

Oh, I have a first conscience memory of an owl
But it’s too painful to revisit
So it’s left as an exercise
For the audience
What is the poet’s owl?


Episode Link | Archive Item | YouTube

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Yes, the opening line is an homage to LKJ

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Jiggle em if you hafta

There’s dust a blowing,
sir, big as a a continent,
and expanding.
Overtake the hemisphere
say a couple a weeks.

Noted.
With an awkward pause.
Why bring it up

Likely extinguish all life.
We can fix it.

Oh, let nature run its course.

But, that’s just it.
It ain’t nature.
It hot and ugly,
vaporized alloys,
ionizing particulates.

Thought you said dust storm.
That’s more of a mushroom cloud.
You wanna try contain it?

Well, yes, sir.
I believe it would be
economically advantageous

The captain smiles,
and how so?

Cheaper stop it now,
than terraform some other planet

You’d be left with
half a planet to play with.

Half the development costs.

OK, good, you’re learning,
the captain covers her collector
mouthing you-just-want-to-study,
he nods,
she offers a hand, get me em numbers.

By the way she said em
it meant jiggle-the-numbers
and the handshake was a
back channel to someone in TR.

Um, shure will do that
he questions but corrects
with eureka on his skin
I’ll inform technological reclamation,
maybe be that there’s something for em.

And em meant us this time
a whole planet, for us, on the outskirts,
economically feasible
if you leave those details out.

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Think of it as code switching in the 24th century. In a culture where curiosity is considered menacing, while everything is geared to economic progress, and omnipresent data-collectors can't quite make out colloquial language.

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Saturn, My Love

Your love is plumb round
The planet from you
And you got water to collect
For Earth, they ran through
Their supply allotment
Long time ago
And it’s on you
And your love is plumb round
The planet
Also collecting water
For home.
But no one thinks about love
As they dismantle the Jewel.

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