Post Art-i-fact-o

What happened in here?

They All asked

they made Art

with what they found

with new found Purpose

They said

let us try to Make

something of This

you See more than many

Depth, behind or beyond Being inside

your Time

Frame.

What happened was-All reaction,

I’s further upon reflection,

absorb color theory, insistent as Form,

stole shape of an idea and Acts upon it.

It happens.

not all see it.

that way more for us

to take in and make out. 

Painting by Władysław Malecki (1883) (cyfrowe.mnw.art.pl) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Light flavors

Now,

without the sun

                        overbearing

we can be

just

Honest, say don’t hurt

just

because you can enunciate

                        I can.

            I can-say it-

Now you say it

Strong like Bull-

            Head

Built like brick

            Chicken

-house-

Homeless vagabond renter, 

                         squatter be

categorically dissimilar

part Yokohama

                        by strolls through Ipanema

Say, there goes another

                        Bohemian

Fine

Young

Cannibal 

               could eat you up!

What have you to say 

that won't sting?

From where we began

Now finds us in the strangest

                        Truths.

I too prefer plums

                        To lemons. 

Painting by Hieronymus Galle (c. 1636-1646) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Composition by ear

The music tutor

Directed the pupil

Watch-Watch-My Hands-

Listen-Hear the sound-

In Here-It feels

Right-There.

and those scales rose and sank

perked up for notes to hang shapes

Of waves on passing ears-

No-No-NO-

You missed a step-

Here-skip-and where is that note

You played-out of tune-

Try to pretend you play.

and again, the pitching seas rolled,

bodies thrown together, clumped 

Whole words found themselves 

in forgotten consonants,

meaningless 

Bumbles swarm. 

Painting By Frances Hodgkins (1869 - 1947) – Creator (New Zealand; Great Britain) Born in Dunedin, New Zealand. Dead in Dorset, England. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Was

She cringes. They knew.

Didn’t say, wouldn’t change

nothing, anything

help or hurt

They wait, mercy resides

patience, temperance,

in these, out there

touch and feel

lost and found

not looking, not seeing,

not needing, not wanting

more than, merely

her presence, her past

come back…

Painting By Félicie Schneider (1831 - 1888) (Sotheby's New York, 29 January 2010, lot 867) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The path is Brodsky

His sentences say

He never repeats them

With eye or I

How would we know?

He is only a product of

Progression, 
an obsession with freedom

Of speech and others

Sentences.

His composure, 
demure, muffled,

intonations

He shies away

From his fiction

Life. Sentences.

Written this way.

Point of Departure is too

Point of No Return.

Painting by Isaak Brodsky (1906) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wolf dreams

The  blood flows as current
through and around the brain
spilling into empty as I lay
down to sleep.

We say-Wheels Spin-
is this where we begin and end
that recapped thought, witticism, and dig
deeper as I have a conversation
with self, explaining
why Ezra Pound is not
considered
an American Hero-
although I fancy the lad,
I now understand and so
much evil clumps in corners
the sealed eyes squeeze and fold in
the car repair for son, the phone for daughter
colleges, dinners, stories and towels-
so many towels-folded, washed,
thrown down, tossed, appropriated in the rain,
picked up-creamer but forgot the bunnies
and the pain better not grow or settle down-
the ER is not OK today, I am OK, I say,
I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am
hear-not here,
my body belies deep breathing
and I still think
I sleep
too much.



Painting by Albert Joseph Moore (1875) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Grains

More than once

you find me

Open, accepting

of the visit, intrusion-

Not that

it is-you are

-unwelcome-

Insistent, indeed and once

I look at you again,

One begins to recognise

A feature-

There-it is-pushing into

view, a rise out of you- 

and I felt I knew you already.

Somehow you seem different, today.

You seem bent by paint, 

or diffused light through crystal as

strung up window ornaments.

It is that smell that tells me

You are close enough to see the

expressions, stretches or sweat, 

through thirst and famine.

More salt is needed,

Wouldn’t you say?


Painting by Valentin Serov, Portrait of Olga Trubnikova (1886) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Sculptor recoils at the mess made

♦

The stone may remain
a mark, a mary,
an adam or a bone,
and thus, it surpasses us.

Immortal or always dead-
This
does not explain
heat retention
or justify the cold
kept on and in.

♦

Medusa met her match in a mirror,
a moment forestalled by the vividness-
as perpetual disturbance or hair on end-
as in, the felt self
never having been
so repulsed before

She,
sentenced to see, only.
Muted.
She makes more matter
for company-posterity,
as in a collective semblance
with what is given.

♦

By stone, in stone
the smallest settle
together. Bolder.

Be-cause con-crete crystals,
gold dust flecks spark-les
closer to the smooth surface.

Reflection, like passing winds
erode the images cast in like-ness
breaks down
all That
the stone hoped to be.

♦


Painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme, Pygmalion, and Galeta in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Soundless garden

The word noose hung in my head

Another dead

                        body

                                    sways

goes away

A pretty pendulum taut under a knot beam

strong enough

I cannot convince myself

Ends are here

                        I feel them approach nearer

draws on

a bead

my unknown heart

my heavy hit

                        ear drums

                        top snares

his rhythm speaks to me

                        alone-

                        who left-

                        who-

Speak up, I’ll clap my bones,

bang my head

until I snap

off

my fate

my wave

                       crashes.

On May 17^th Chris Cornell, an American musician and artist, took his own life-and his art-leaving behind a dear family, a large extended family, close and distant friends and fans that span generations, leaving us all to thrash in the crashing waves of his music awaiting a sense of full color sunset on his vivid passionate life. I hope he may be resting peacefully. 

Painting by Albert Joseph Moore [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A handle on things

Of course her hands would eventually

Change, I accept the adaptation

And know I must let go of the little one.

Trading the paper and the pencil, manual

We labor, we trade and I watch

The same ring on me, though this one

Is rose gold-

And I cannot demagnetize my eyes or

tear them away from her new woman hands.

It is

The way she holds the pencil

The way she hovers over the white page

The way she hopes it will be good

I am confident

She is in good hands. 


Painting by Marie Bashkirtseff (1881) in [Public domain, Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Trees before forest

Long ago,

I relished, savoring that golden hour

In which people so often flock to the sea

Eyes set on the dipping radiant sun

And me now

Caught completely off-guard, unarmed,

By the bright gold glint reflecting upon

The beige page I cradle,

This glare that makes me lose

Place, interest, grip

in, on, or about anything

but this propositioning, this pen

and a poem

waiting for me

to see it there.


Painting by Tom Thomson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sure line

With these borrowed hands still unrecognizable
I have learned to poke and preen this vessel
taking exploratory measures
only within reach

None of the pieces fit together
like hands holding hands holding hands
This is what I got

I need these as is,
collectively
to see, together,
to gather
keepsakes

this is why the shells scatter near the jetty
by the sea
by the tide, from sand, into sand, by grain
by the hand full, glass full, by the hour

which explains why we collect empty dollars
one day,
we may fit in
beautifully.


Painting by Julian Ashton, 'Summer morning, 1899' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Write hot, edit cold

None of it was good enough.

So you see, here, admittedly,

I understand the fire, a self-starter,
it makes decent fuel

the words work better than well.

It means I too- must end this way,

plain as day, Cremation

and yet

Fire scares me honestly.

It may be a miserable moment,

the next page, the new leaf, the blank slate-

Wait-never mind-what was said-dead-again.

Each time it becomes easier to name the wrong noun,

confound even myself, crosswords no longer help.

In other words

I shall not say,

See me

and I will match you.

I am simply sulphuring,

reeking with green steam.

Saturated, and I am too porous for this

laughing at my whole self,

the incompetence I relied upon 

and moments reborn

into better than imaginable-Memory.

Pretty-

All ways worth the weight in white.

Angels giggle at these simmering sounds

mistaken for a narrow fellow in the grass

making coils warm,

it was all the write words

fuming in the sun

without a bone to burn or pick

the ice ages will do the rest.  



Painting By McCord, George Herbert, 1848-1909 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Aeration

The spiders all scatter when the rock is pulled up,

worms wiggle 
desperate foreigners in terrestrial elms.

Well, it made me think of what they had been doing

before being caught off guard.

It hails this summer,

so they scream and say-All Parades Postponed-

& then the others look at their calendars and cross out

& cry looking up to the sky pointing green stems in vein.

Kites and clouds occupy the canopies,

caught in the whisk of wayward cycles
and lofty expectations, 

it is only pressure applied in decibels of thunder.

White petals all tremble, rose and lilly blush

at the smoky voice chanting in Gregorian tones,

a language lost to Time and wilt,

where these new colors cannot comprehend

so much red earth and black sand-

& then whispers round
like spider legs,

Trailing off, 
earthworms evacuate

I, Aye, eye

mist the warning

but held my breath. 


Image credit By Royal Air Force official photographer, Hensser H (Mr) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Turning over

At 2:24 dark, the mockingbird, and moon

Conspired to wake me,

I rise, finally, compulsive-

By three thirty both have fallen back down

It is only me awake

Again

In this nook, near a shelf in the world.

The cats all sleep deeply at this hour,

The only ripple above is me.

Already, I have sought in the low light

And scoured the flat surfaces for the source

Of the voice-

As though if I knew this

I could sleep through the music

Conducting words my way

Some sink in

Such as

-Begin and Again-

i-am-hear.


Painting by Oscar Florianus Bluemner, 'Moon-Night-Mood' (1929) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Her yin

The woman saves babies.
I have seen her catch one
in midair with one hand
as it was falling out of
a walmart cart.

The woman I have seen
juggles jobs, hats, dishes,
bills and priorities,
shifting her wide hip weight
when necessary.

The woman stands in front
of her own children, taking bullets
and returning aim, she puts her arm out
when they are driving
still
and says it is reflexive.

The woman always worries,
I have seen her furrowed brow
she has origami secrets folded
up in there,
she uses up more than she has with nothing
left
of self

The woman knows her cliches and expectations,
she recites them easily if you ask,
and somehow
day to day words assemble easily for her,
she may manipulate these into weaponry,
unless she sees
some innocence,
she proposes poisons leaving bodies
awake.

Painting by Bronzino (1540) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sara Nade

Here is that same night bird taking the top of the stage outside the window

Singing light purple notes alone and unashamed of his thin lilting echo

Pitched out and rolling down the quiet village lane over fences

and peeking in windows,

Disturbed 

and proud I would be

if I had feathers to wear tomorrow…

There are no reasons or songs the avian knows

by heart, I listen, still interrupted

under the occasional bassos auto rumbling past, 

the bird usually waits for the concrete to cool

back down

Before the night bird at the window

hops himself back up his perch to scale, 

topping his previous arias and picking at

new notes

The world rises in mourning ovation, 

the inevitable death of knights

or a little light disturbance,

I will get used to it. 



Photo By USFWS Mountain-Prairie [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Degrees of profession

Develop a certain

-skill set-

as in business, with cool callousness 

as in karate where

the belt be the crown, that designates 

the title or rank, currently

The executive balancing his arches

strapped acrost the tautly

ill-suited rung to sole,

checks his elevation, adjusts the white collar

and gauges

                    his next move.

Now, 

undo what was taught to you

as a rule, reject the ready-mades-

the artist sees these to steal everywhere,

his palms itch and brow drips with want, 

keeping it in,

he delicately destroys his visions,

brushing this distorted imagery away-

missing the point

                               of manipulation.

But by degrees of depth

-perception-

These Two, these too,

Race like Humans

to make names

that mark more than maker, dreg

on the bottom

left

worse off

The blue suits are more, deflecting danger,

The artist, unafraid of crimson, leaves a line

tethered to nerves

that steal

and is broken 

down to blur.



Self portrait By Manuel Pereira da Silva [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Confessions of Stories Never Told (mainly by Rip G. Larsen)

Sealed and steeled and
in tact, in fact, all there-disheveled

in-side the unripe, oxidized lock box, ideas

tamped down in ply, peeling brittle-edged leaves

papers, actually, assorted, fragmentary thoughts-

in-spiration in scraps, morsels and ort,
accumulatively intended

to become something someday a story,
or Open Works-en-Titled:

Idea, Plot, Wet/ Dry, Action Scenes Black forlorn (negro),

Husband and wife, Idea and Story?

Suede pages soft as tanned hides, see the sunlight and crackle

after fifty long dark years crisping in the metal closet,

delicately, I have shuffled through these-

dead mans buried confessions, yarns my grandfather never spun out,

of ideas kept shuffled up, out of mind -out of mindsight 

only to be come, unfortunately,

resurrected by me,
I see a story to be told,

another resurrection fable-
(when they were true and alive)

His lines cast Here:

***************

Go to ‘Blake’ island for mercy killing,

Witnessing of murder changes husbands mind

Convicts solve his personal problem

By killing his wife-

(he lives)

Write one about a revengeful husband who kills his wife’s murderer,

after he is sentenced to life imprisonment.

Taking down of memorial in wintry square.

Idea-Symbols that always work of superstitions that always work-have some from…(illegible)

Idea-In a human vein, tell the story of a very adroit sponge (use G.L.as example)Have this trait finally come to a climax with a human ending

Idea-Write one about rodeo philosophers who have life figured out.-Get one of these guys in trouble philosophizing about (illegible) Show his Reaction.

Idea-Two people in some environment struggling for the same thing-person detests the other for the very same faults that he has. One commits a sin and boldly accuses the other of its execution.

Idea How about using a guy who sees too much significance in each little event that occurs. Have him re-act a humorous chime to his disadvantage.

Idea    Sargasso Sea   to ships as  (illegible)  on Howard St. ---One young face in a sea of living corpses

Husband// Very devoted, sensible, Impetuous, Loves wife deeply, Patient, Noble, Drinks to relieve tension, sentimental, sensitive, sense of humor (over)

Wife// Irrational, Intelligent, Sharp-witted, has softening of the brain

Open scene with her in some unintelligible but significant conversation and action and end play with husband in some way-

Beautiful, superstitious, fearful

Vivid Night Dream                         12^th Night

Wet                                                    Dry

3”                                                        6”

Much ado about Nothing

Action Scenes

Battle with weather by man

Battle of man with man

Battle of man with animals

Battle of man with unknown

Battle of man with = -woman?  (grandmothers handwriting)

Black forlorn (negro)-His eyes and coat were wrinkled from the evening's sleep

Story?

Dumb:____

I know you are well educated but do you have any money?
****************

The wife would be killed repeatedly and in theory,
this philosophy should disturb me, but it goes

unexecuted,
the crazy wife would die following him, naturally.

The gold lock on the green box was put on by Goldy-locks,
Blondie never laughed at these names that nicked at her nerves-

nor at all his taunting confessions
she noted, (red), too late

of murders he could never commit, accepting his miserable
blue collar fate
he quit

killing his darlings,

and turning attention to himself
went blue in the face
from this treading along of
American live-ly-hood-

Well-by now
we have seen, culture kills all kings,
by this time
unable to slay
all (his)storied thoughts, he locks them up for life,
to for get it out and to be handed down
the line.



   

Fingertips gather nerves

I got over it.

I had some extra lift,

(Oofta as grandma would say, Chutzpah grandpa would grumble

in accordion)

Don’t think brazen-

Don’t drink that-

It is enough without elaborating

It is extra superfluous to describe-

So let’s not.
So let’s be

Honest. Necessary. Only. Listen.

More understood, more grounded under foot.

The wings will whisper-“I, lashes”

The blood tingles warm, currently a-live.

Everything here was for you to use,

Everything was waiting

Notice.

Photo By No machine-readable author provided. B & W Kirlian fingertip [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.