Russ Sargent's Video Podcast

Canto 6, Clarion Vice

Russ Sargent (Russ Sargent) — Tue, 25 Apr 2006 13:42:00 -0700

Canto 5, Clarion Vice

Russ Sargent (Russ Sargent) — Sun, 22 Jan 2006 17:34:00 -0800

41.1MB, 08'17. .m4v,

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Canto 5

You see. first thing out of high school I had to choose between
dishwashing and suicide. So I snaked my way down the
middle, got a pack of Camel straights and started working out
my pulmonary flatline. O the poisoned bliss of adolescent
nicotine incarcerations! Hey, every fatality yields up its
opportunity. And before you know it a room full of morons
is crying: long live Death! Viva la Muerte! Yeah, it took years
to figure out a freedom sentence: Liberation for Life!
Liberation for Life! That death sentence don't start til I'm gone.
Meanwhile, here I am walking a million miles in my own shoes
until all my souls are transparent and I feel the Earth
through the pores of my feet. The orgasms ain't over til it's
over boys'n girls. I'm the fiction of my own best description.
And despite all them little rot eyes I'm a Roman
conflagration burning through every moment of my life.
I know what kind of dust to plant the maze in. I'm feasting
down on the golden kernels of the muse. When the snow melts
we'll see where the sign lies. Yeah, when I stroll down Wall St.'s
lonesome canyons I'm like a poor little porcupine with my
chattering head fully arrayed in the white flame of its quills!
Yeah, the magic red welcome carpet got torn up from
under my feet. So now I'm just stumbling over these
railroad ties trying to find a boxcar where I can rest my meat.
I ain't got no real expectations. Just this one long oblique
raving aspiration. This vitalism that's prerequisite for the streets.
Christ, I could be brown, red, yellow, or green. I could be
black and white. I'm the latest unknown citizen of the U.S.A.
The Used Soul Association, that is. I resume my angelesque
position at dawn. David standing beneath the
multiple chins of Goliath, straining every sinew of my gut
for this voice because this nutshell's just gotta go on reinventing
itself like a fool's cornucopia. (Ever try the Whitman shuffle?)
What I'm saying is: Don't let them raccoons walk off
with the peaches! Come on over to my place. I'll show you
my Shakespeare. We'll fatten up my pet woodpecker and
watch re-runs of The Rug Suckers from Mars! I'll show
you how to feed a psychosperma elegland and why music's
a prophylactic for the soul. We'll leave our poems along the
roadsides the way the snakes leave their skins since it’s by
such accidents our paths are made in thoughts as I who make this
unmade life and die, born, gather these loose words after tragedy
litters our stage, writing that to write is purgatory doubly
unredeemed and that just to hold you now is all the pleasure
I ever gained and this by mere imagination only since by now
you, the very exponent of my absence have become the very
factor of my non-existence and yet I know the days are infinitely
young as the Earth is old and for that and you I would leap this
minute from hell to Paradise. The time it takes to say the world
in rhyme. Since perhaps there is yet one who remains, even at this
late date who will still believe this commedia Of mine, divine (ha,
ha, ha). Ah, Willy Aligheri, Ole Buddy, where yuh been? But if the
truth be told my friend, seriously now, it's simply that the Being is a
spirit-storm that leaves the soul of its Becoming NAKED
IN THE STREETS!!! NAKED IN THE STREETS!!! Where the
god-muscle of the heart drives visions through the roofs of the skull
teaching us to sleep beneath Pasternak's greatcoats in the rain.
And to make love beneath the spreading canopies of an osprey's wings
as we go on listening to the squealing wheels of Ezekiel
in his passing train....

Canto 4, Clarion Vice

Russ Sargent (Russ Sargent) — Tue, 3 Jan 2006 17:28:00 -0800

45.7MB, 08'56, .m4v

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Canto 4

Which reminds me, how will I ever endure the gestation
of the final birth? I'll have to take my clothes off and have a
brush with the underworld. Do my little strip tease dance
for all them sorry looking deathfaces. What am I, the only guy
who thinks he's got carrots bigger than Claude the Carmelite's?
Is it normal to have this neon blood? According to the
mathematics of insight it may soon be feasible to declassify
the algorithms for freedom. Cures for cancer may be easy as
finding words to rhyme with slime. We just have to concentrate
long enough on the infant prayers to grass and stone and house
and bird and river and tree and moon: all those representations
of pastoral regressions! Especially the ones with my stick
figure friends in them; those pictures I drew once with the
squarish-looking aminals upside down in the
foreground and the squiggly lines through their teeth. (Haven't
you ever seen a frog eating lightning?) Just imagine if we
ever lost our confidence in the magic cadence! 0 moan, moan, moan.
Yeah, give it a moan: AAAAAAGH!
I'm up Heraclitus' Creek without a pair of lion wings!
Whatever happened to that magical pulse you once infused in me?
Nothing's so small as death once a certain movement sweetens
existence and that sink full of dirty dishes suddenly looks beautiful!
0 Love, Love, Love. Come springclean my soul! 0 Moon, Moon, Moon.
Come beat my blood! Fill me with your wings, you doves! Time
to shoot that wadsworth my gentle wordsfellows! Don't you
see how the streets weep and how the park bench trembles
at a human touch? Exuberance is beauty says the Child of Eternity!
And cheap praise is yesterday's mayonnaise. The world
is a sentience and the extra-alive is the proof of the synchronicity.
Pain rots my teeth but can't keep the poem from knowing
when it's hungry. I'm a mole tunneling through the snow sculptures
of the wind, I love the blue crystal light, a little song melts
in the tiny paws, right before my embryonic eyes! It's a plague
of joy! 0 my god, O my god, O my god. I'm surrounded
by legions of glass-munching bible-gophers in a rosy
clouded yawn. Give me fifteen minutes in that tomato light.
I gotta change this fucking world. (Watch out for the generation
of cardboard castratos) Comedian is the vitamin C! Aw shucks,
them boys'r makin' all the big bucks, but hey let everyone
be kool, and by the way, I'm from the Kazmajazz School. I’m
spreading my kazmajism because I can identify with the
brouhaha of suffering sarcasm that deconstructed
so much of my happiness I had to drink a gallon of maple
syrup just to start having visions again. C'mon People, support
the spectacle of the talking human at the height of its wits,
welcome to the circus! (can't you see I'm trying to
make a living here?) Feast your eyes upon The Sufferer! (ha ha ha)
Hey, I ain't your average ivory tower wino. It costs 20,000
a day just to keep my pacemaker adjusted. I'm facelifting
this old hag we call America in my spare time, so sue me
for the big mouth, but I gotta eat before I die of plastic education.
I pity any country in which publicly being in love
is considered "disturbing the peace". Go ahead, treat me
like a leper whose body's about to blow away in the wind!
I was once as you are so say yourself a prayer! See you
in the land where the Cows call the Lord home. We gotta
pave these streets with poetry all the way to the
Emerald City! Can I help it if I'm a hyperplasmic hypersign?
I'm blasting Giotto through my veins, having a Bach Bash
in my soul, I'm mainlining the Poem, Sweetheart. I'm free at last.
God Almighty, I am free at last! Can't anybody see
how the poor are gagging on the snakesoap soup?
I wanna join the Bards of Babylon and break the gridlock of the soul,
cuz I was born at zero hour GMT, longitude 72, latitude 43,
as the Sun was leaving the House of Venus through the back door,
and Taurus the Bull was taking a piss behind the Pleiades,
the snow was smoking through the trees, a storm-dance
of reveling revelries, the whole gang of us was gabbing
with a sphinx, outdervishing the dervishes. And if you think
I'm just makin' all this shit up my friends, go ask my sister,
Cassandra, I understand she's been out wandering too, crying out!
Some fresh news....

Canto 3, Clarion Vice

Russ Sargent (Russ Sargent) — Tue, 6 Dec 2005 07:38:00 -0800

22MB, 05'20, .mov

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Canto 3

My ink blurs as snow hits the page of this small notebook
I keep close to my groin. I'm thinking of all my
brothers and sisters who've haunted these rails. I’m
stalking the wild shadows of the mystery with my streaks
of loquacity. Every betrayal just adds to the power. I’m
watching a troupe of birds with my big eyes of ground glass,
just listening to the bush sparrows all whimpering together.
They can't seem to find a single seed in the snow. I'm standing
at the verge of an ellipse you've inspired in me. I'm the
snowflake who defines the darkness! Yeah, any poet knows
we can live our passions consuming little more than rice
and oatmeal. I love every ass tattooed with the words
fuck this and the long trails of geese that swing like the
vertebrae of the sky. I love the raw foods that harden me:
those melons, grapefruits, and the wildest of the fresh figs.
I dare burn joy deep inside me. C'mon, give me a peach!
And here, have this footprint I left in the snow. It's because
you're a bonfire in the night that I pity the moths. That's
why I'm singing this lament for Icarus here in the land
where You is the poem, People! I could never afford mufflers
or brakes for my vehicles. Do I have to lower my
voice here for the ladies, too? Or do the ladies have
voices that are full as my own. Name the liberation.
Seize it Babe! Eros brings a jolly malady, they say. So
put on your laughing love-paint and do your giggle-jiggles
of boobs and buttocks until your maddening frenzies
graze nipples across the asparagus spears of Spring!
This ain't no love song. These are the perils of the soul orgy.
Love is immortal. Love is the sun. Everyone knows
the golden vein of its light that comes at the moment
of its greatest daring when you meet the Other in the
Brownian movements of the Tantric Embrace! Am I crazy
to be alive? Or alive to be crazy! Someone's gotta feed
this universe. Loco ergo sum! The howling monkeyman
swings down the spiralling rungs of the genetic code, the lost
scribe who needs power for surviving these icebergs
of hyperborean bonechill! Because the medusas want
to feel themselves getting melted into honey. 0 deep inertia
of the North, BAMMO! You can't stop the Poem,
the Poem can't stop, NO-BO-DY STOPS THE PO-EM,
unless(it dies!)...

Canto 2, Clarion Vice

Russ Sargent (Russ Sargent) — Sun, 13 Nov 2005 09:32:00 -0800

iPod friendly .mov file

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Canto 2

Hey, what kind of playground is this? I was expecting
the wild intimate games of being alive, but this is where
the see-saw drops out from under me, busting
my spine; where I break my teeth on the metal bars
because my best friend is playing practical jokes;
where I swing higher and higher until nausea fills my
stomach with butterflies fainting me up, and up,
into Death. Yeah, I'm licking the sweetness from the
shards of these broken wine bottles because a run
in your pantyhose propels me, Sweetheart. I want
to recycle all my empty bottles of hope, but where
can I redeem them? I've got enough life savers here
for the whole human race if they'd just take this poem
and suck on it! 0 you scarlet cardinals with your
feathery black faces, I see the diamonds in your eyes
under those tousled crests, ah, you're beautiful
you fat feasting winterers! (0 God, don't wait till I'm dead
to love me!) Don't you understand my wailing like this?
Fuck it if you can't take an exclamation! The train
is whistling that mysterious code of longs and shorts:
the engine of its earthquake is passing. I've got nothing
to lose, get it? I know there's a message here someplace.
Hey, have a look under those sneaker soles my friend
you see standing there (ha ha ha). Ah, to be
drunk on pure drunkenness, pure spirits! Let me enjoy
one moment without the pollutions of the elixirs of assassination,
those injuries, those veritable plagues upon my existence.
I don't want to live in the sleepy silent houses where the
flickering tongue of that blue monster is. At least allow me
this one moment for pouring my own rich angers into
the crucibles of my poetry: I'm like the stillness of a brick
in the shattered glass that flows imperceptibly through the
veins of the rivers. I don't lift mountains any more, I let them go.
I let mountains of pain just go, go, go: I let'm go! Cuz I
need the joie du vivre that transcends the pain. I mean,
like hey, did poetry start to die when St. Ambrose began reading
his books out silently? Did St. Augustine exist on the mere
memories of pleasure? Do we have to go on waiting impatiently
for the distinction of this so-called Civilized World? Wake up
Motherfuckers! I'm the spirit-spasm who wants to drink
at the fountains of the nest. I wanna steal socks and roll
newspaper-size joints like in the movies of my childhood. I’d
like to stuff Stephen King in his little coffin and ship him out to sea.
Aye mate, and go Mobydick yourself if you think I'm just
searching for some more Truth! Don't you get it? I got a
bad case of sunbelly, baby. Go ahead and bury me where I can
feed the potatoes what I composed. Here, here are your roses
Officer, how can I help singing when I'm thinking of you? I'm just
another whore out here working every day for more pain and
money, in and out at the Stop & Go until the day when all
them computers finally copulate telepathically. I love the blue auras
of the black mud! I embrace the infant fire hydrants because
I know the power they contain and the fire that is soothed by
gushing! 0 President of the Spirito-Optical Dept. of Genevision Inc.,,
keep your bloodburgers and razorblade milkshakes! I've already
got enough evidence to support any argument that seeks to
destroy itself. So don't be afraid of the songs that are sleeping
inside of us. It's only little me here. Yeah, I'm still looking for
those magical castles we lost once someplace in the ashes
of Alexandria ....

Canto 1, Clarion Vice

Russ Sargent (Russ Sargent) — Mon, 31 Oct 2005 20:00:00 -0800

7.1MB, 05'59, .mov, iPod friendly

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Canto I

I hear voices, discussions between Zeus and Maximón,
the blood gods, while I'm out bird watching by the junk car lot,
my binoculars all ready for the rise of the phoenix. See,
I’m out here walking along the railroad tracks, the kid
on the balancing beam, I go foot after foot along the rail,
my back to the train, keeping pace toward the sun. I see it
falling and wanna catch it in my arms before it sets over
this city of wires and steeples. I've still got thirty good vertebrae
and this here jaw meat stuck between my teeth as I
contemplate these rails made from the slag of condensed clouds
and gather armfuls of poison sumac because every seed is
wrapped in red velvet. And on a good day the moon’s visible
at two in the afternoon. There's no time for the dregs. This mud's
too thick. I'm gonna need all my strength just for wading through it.
I'm like an oak who who wants to move itself to a better position.
I walk with the power of roots! I don't know the name of this
place anymore. I'm just trying to learn how to exist
under ice, designing palaces for the worms. A statistician
of lost dreams! I can't wait for that blinding moment
when I face the train's white eye and get to read all
those poems the lovers left under the railroad ties. A moth
gave birth to the sun! (I love every moment of hyperbole!)
I lost all those arguments with my friend Passion, she says
I'm not ready to exist yet, haven't done my breathing exercises.
And yet she assures me I'm still technically possible. I could
still have that feast of hunger that's a discipline of confusion. 0
pity the poor barbaric yawp, pity the poor hovering accents
over the variable feet! I should’ve been an arsenic lobster
falling out of the sky! For Christ's sake listen to me People,
tomorrow I'm gonna fucking die! I'm blowing kisses
over the picket fences, weeping as I pass! When I flatten
myself on the gravel between these two rails, the train
passes over my body and only my fear can kill me! My
eyes are Concord grapes, my tongue is tough and smooth
as the songs of the morning cock after the wedding!
Every small town has inherited me, smuggled in or otherwise!
Don't forget to roar when you get to that bridge of darkness
or from your islands floating in the Great Lakes of Forever!
Let's take the kids out skating this winter across the
frozen firmament as the stars bubble-up in the champagne night!
Throw me a dollar you bums, I'm talkin' to yuh! America,
you bum, why'd you sell the youth down the river?
How come we gotta pay just to get our urinations notarized
down these local bus stations? How come the filings of bog
iron gather around the roses in our hearts and every other
sign seems to say DO NOT PASS! Yo, say hello to me
for once you mofos! Don't you know when this train finally
hits the eternal snowbank Buddy my last words will be
I love you....