Ex-ist

I am
feeling myself,
finally

Sinking
in-
to

This
warm pool of,
light
easily blood or

Life-like.


Painting by John Henry Twachtman (1853-1902), 'Figure in Sunlight' (Artists wife) c. 1890-1900 in [Public domain].

(w)hole sentences

This practice 
does not make perfection
but a percentage
lingers with something special.

There are notes everywhere
like atoms of crumpled 
origami sound making the shape
of scribble.

Misaligned,
a cacophony
anyone can blow or bang, shout and wail,
I am trying to make some music
but I cannot flesh out
the transition.

I was always fondest of shoes,
Like endings.

I wonder, while I look at all the
scattered pieces, 
amble across the landscape
of my desk like deer pathways
is why I cannot seem to finish...


Artwork by Hans Holbein (1497-1543), 'Studies of the hands of Erasmus of Rotterdam' in [Public domain].

Shifts

Today
I will
write
paint, read and make marks
in space
empty of purpose.

Tonight
I may
Sleep
In trust
A soul
Is given another wake.

Painting by Rogier van der Weyden [Public domain], 'Saint Luke drawing the Virgin',  c. 1435 in Public Domain. 

Muerto de la Noche

A solitary soul stirs
this night around
its geared dial.

Icy on the rocks,

all that matters
bends the steel air
sparks subdue any singes

While other carbon bodies
lie in their nests
heaving gentle breaths
through resting rib cages
my feathers fall out
and the kitten chases them
under the couch.

Watching the speed of time
and loaded with momentum,
and anticipation
for the light that breaks

anything it touches,

it dawned over me,
 (after all) an awareness
that all feathers fall
at the same speed coin wishes
sink
under the weight of water-

sometimes out of sight.

The brown widow and I weave
simultaneous gossamer threads
from what we have left
of the night that never
imposes its intimate knowledge

without our consent

and an entwined desire
to witness this place
we seem to not belong
but are required to prey in
for survival.

The kitten purrs in a ball,
the humans snore, fetal in their beds,
while I draw out long lines
the nocturnal pace
themselves
into the unforgivable light.


Artwork by Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916), 'Figure reading at a table at night', medium-chalk, c. 1891 in Public Domain.

Counting downward

How many times
         have I worn a watch
(consistently)
         until it stopped
being consistent
         so I stopped wearing it
?

Why try
to rely
            upon such fragile devices
(like butterfly wings)
             that beat on deaf ears
while years
go by
like hours

?

Like most of us
I check the phone
for answers
to more than
Hello?
(without a pulse
that I can count)

How fast was it All
going
by day, by night
             -impossible to tell
ourselves or the others
without a second-hand
account.



Artwork by Winslow Homer, wood engraving, 'Another Year by the old clock' c. 1870 in Public Domain.

Anthropomorphia of Aesop

It could be the case
that the average bear
refused to learn
anything
from the old dog
that retrieved only
as far as he could see
around his cataracts.

In fact,
only the owl querries over us
anymore.

The lesson being
more than the moral,

it was wiser
to not wonder
where things went
when out of view.

Painting by Valentine Cameron Prinsep (1838-1904), 'Il Barbagianni (The Owl)' c. 1863 in Public Domain.

Scripted

Found some handwriting
it took forever to decipher
as my own,

with large open loops
and smooth sweeping strokes
outside the lines,
I read
plain as day, black on white,
set as granite

between these boulders
where I have been pinned
and slowly
squeezed into thinking
I must fit
failing
to recognize
how shallow
my breath had become
how tiny and whispered
my words were,

I take in less and less
of what is essential to live.

I do not recognize the freedom
of thought,
for a moment
things shifted,
weight-
and I saw myself
scratched out.



Image credited by 'Theory and Practice of handwriting' c. 1894 in Public Domain. 

Cold tile roof

The cat was absent at breakfast,
a first,
and
unappetizing feeling found me.

I sought, and called softly
in the pale predawn air
which carries things
a bit too far.

I heard his pleas
directed at me, but could not see
him,
anywhere-

Curiously
his green flashing pupils
caught my eye
in the mortuary moonlight
looking down
from the rooftop
yelling, cat calling down
at bewildering me.

After I rescued him,
again,
climbed the ladder
convincing him
his life was secure in my hands

we humans,
wondered how
or what
lifted his seventeen-
maybe twenty-pound body
up
and exposed all
forty-degree night...

Perhaps it's all a metaphor,
like when survival
is not a skill
but we do it anyway.

And it dawns on me,
that in reality,
rescues often
go the other way.


Painting by Camille Pissaro, 'Red roofs, corner of a village, winter time' c. 1877 in Public Domain. 

One a.m.

Under an unforgiving winter
full moon
light,
bonded
I become
by these rules,

heavier than gravity
or speculation.

Disheveled sheets show
lasting impressions
in icy blue hues.

The sky reflects
jagged pieces
like a shattered mirror,

Fragmented
by this time
life traces the artwork,

Homer hovers above
A tired lady remakes her bed,
tucking in the corners
mitered under the mattress
as taught-

as if poetic justice
could be concealed by folds
or heat could be
contained.

Art is often a window
to what we are about to be-
come.

Cliches cling to us.

See,
beauty was always drawn to you
in long strokes thick in color
and time-
You would not look-
until Now.

It would always be shown
how moonlight erases any line
untrue
to round forms,
like heavenly bodies

tumbling through
mortal moments
both heavy and light
in alternate perspectives.


Painting by Winslow Homer, 'Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain. 

Combustible

Blinded and spotted
with double vision
of two
dancing around
the ring, the pit, the issues,
the pyre and flames,
the names
we use
in Love...

The elements
were all presiding
outdoors.
The smoke moves us
around
the light flickers
and pops as it catches
on...

This orange glow,
we know
the truth is
coming together
these cold nights
bonfires seeking
vanity
are explosive,
knotted and ingrained.

We agree
wholeheartedly,
we are only we,
individually.


Painting by Paul Gaugin, 'Upa, Upa (the fire dance)' c. 1891 in Public Domain.