Thursday, June 8, 2017

Give & Take


The most random growth
strikes me as superfluous
Beauty.
Look around;
Light, colors, temperature, 
                        and patterns too ornate
to recreate by free hand. Living proof.
I take it in too deep, bury stars under dust
And as ugly as I try
a mote may hope
to grow out of it.


Illustration from Patrick Moore's Watcher of the Stars in 16th century[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A loud thought


We
are the only creatures
that are meta

Supposedly
as in Assumption
Anthropologically
or making
Anthropocenes
and calling it
as though It is

Fragmented-
they said
I was
Funny,
that is my poetry showing
if you have a sense of humor
or comical elbow
you know
jabs are blunt

This specific species
doesn’t understand
All 
parts as a whole

some were mystified
and thought the Art clever-
Others never
see the holes
by volume of alibis

Let’s confess,
if it bleeds it needs
Compression
another way to say
another need-
                      to say.


Painting by John Michael Wright [Public domain], Portrait of a Lady (17th century) via Wikimedia Commons.

Caught in a (w)rec(k)tangle


When the house becomes too small to move-
Say-the mind a sliver, the air stagnates,
Move, make ninety degrees and push
yourself in the corner as close as you can
                                                    and wait,
settle eventually
                                      into splitting sides.

The edges are solid suggestions.
Only like (a)new angle,                thirty-three
vertebrae stacked spines of letters in cantos
                        Will line up to form new rays,
circular thoughts that roll off to escape
                                                       -common
nodes or intersects by a(n)arrow marginality.

Letterally, let us build this thing out
with meaning and not caulk it up impermeable
Around the double pane windows
Only to trap commas in between
Breath and rain
Between escape and containment
We will just
stay in place and listen
Accepting the sentence
as the last line
Insight. May be make more
empty dwelling spaces
To call a place
None like Home. 


Painting by Michiel Sweerts [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

ReHab Babble Skyrise


Talking over each other, toward-ish not to
but around each other,
                            behind each 
others spinal columns and ghostly
inaction at tiny distances-do nothing near 
                           commons called locales-
Not True?
Anyway,
don’t listen-

when I say,
Enough! I speak for all of us that agree
-could care less about your new shit
or your big problems with your filtering of priorities, 
memory filters, memes, alternative egos and the surplus
Time it took to Kill. Reborn
jabberwocky pixelating phantasm self-orgasming
person robin the hood, savior self from
who you think we think you are. 

None of us want to see what you ate, 
whom you date
yourself by. Don't try to project Person-ality-
when you give backfeed and Forgot how to hear
yourself.
Keep your mouth shut,
didn’t your mother teach you,
manners as a method.

Of saying ‘crazy’ as different,
like the rest, support group relate share the misery-
Take offense? Sure. 
You take defense-the rope is taut.

Did it ever strike you as hurtful -to those with a soul-
dead dolphins, gunfire and blood pools, horrors inhumane
over and over to cause shock but do not strike targets.
Empty shells, mortality falls without impact, on humane
little bitties in cities, breathing on napes.

The awe-some is missing 
that is the bad (fake) news.
Nobody has good news.Celebration is tinged in green.
Locking ears, locking doors, passwords, scans, investments,
Borders, opportunities, admissions, medical plans, retirement,
Money matters and alchemical altruism,

Like science and solution, we are no closer to Here-ing
answers or pleas
we were not looking for while listening to 
the noise, rabble and hum all the while
making no Art of matters

no sense resonates the virtual landscapes,
people posting photos so image lingers, loiters...
muttered some such muse, so much more was 
found unsound and lost between flashes.



Painting by Richard Caton Woodville, Sr. [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
"During a brief career Woodville produced a number of paintings that serve as key documents of urban life in pre-Civil War America. After training in his native Baltimore, Woodville traveled to Düsseldorf to enroll in the town's renowned art academy. He remained in Germany for six years and then briefly visited Paris and London before his early death at the age of thirty. While an expatriate, Woodville painted small, anecdotal genre scenes recalling life in Baltimore. Portrayed here is a typical scene in mid 19th-century Baltimore as described by Charles Dickens: "[of] all eaters of fish, or flesh, or fowl, in these latitudes, the swallowers of oysters are not gregarious . . . and copying the coyness of the thing they eat, do sit apart in curtained boxes, and consort by twos, not by two hundreds." The humor Woodville usually imparted to his subjects is illustrated in this typical Baltimore scene showing local individuals, seated in the booth of an oyster house, engaged in conversation. This work was executed in Düsseldorf for the Baltimore lawyer John H. B. Latrobe (1803-1891)"

X-plane-ing


Never start with

-Because-
it was not good
-nothing-Was
until you found it, nevermind-
motives mean nothing.

I have seen you,
said the old Tribe
in lieu of hollow
Hellos or glum Good byes.

A meeting of the minds may be more than
mirroring-one thing.
(maybe we see the reflective colors
sum up the subject of the object.)

Distractions do divert 
-lightening the wait
of Attraction, less is no more 
than Was. 

Entropy, conceptually, 
reminds us of death.
Heaven forbid our mortal enemy leaves us 
mementos. 
Life lingers on plans, killing time, we forget
Desire by simplifying chaos.

Using zeros and ones
we reduce friction, concentrate on feedback,
Thus, by sharing our singularity as a hole and saying
We relate

origami, fractals, nets,
Symbols are all familiar 
And with so many ways to skin Schrödinger’s cat
how could we-
Not

Because
It is or was

Not a good place to start
with y and ex-plane-ing
flatly, footsteps in another di-
mention.


Photo credit By Agriculture And Stock Department, (1951) Publicity Branch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A lady makes lace


A fistful from elsewhere
Punches back in brass-ware-bare-
knuckles wedged in the apex of this-
body

cage thatched walls, splintering straws
called shelter and In-side to pro-tect this
(hide).

Half dives of full lung, skimming the top ten percent
and heart labors with lead levers, knobbiness is us put out
subwoofer, speaks her dropping a guillotine beat tapped
feet.

Shine, reflective knowing rust by blood
does not make it more occidental
or evident.

Voluminous was in front of us.
Luminous. Seethe and simmering. Conduct thyself.
It meant we were alchemy in the ancient light and cubed to
feeling how close we must be-coming-a but-ajar-
collided with vaporous transitions in space-not
now.

Inevitable and deaf,
truths collide and cling on crystalline charities,
pyramids and Euclid's. 
Insoluble, diluted, inconsolable.

I heave recycled the air, carbon copies fuse for our survival
fitting with such suffocation as we wear with elephantine
authority sans sin-cerity on extended vocation, retied without
social security
which

never Was
you are welcome.



Painting by J. Alden Weir [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Nevermore


About Prometheus,
Not all things combust this way.

The will with wings
plies the sky same as our rows are sown, 
the bird does not always
Fall for it,
and never sweats it. 

The Raven, not Michael nor Quoth
Wingnut, whose pine cabin home was hewn
down in front of mine-by a giant crane

now moves from Ficus to Loquat to Mexican Fan
Palm and gets around others-his heritage gone-
Well, I watch him still,
He plants trees in the front yard.

I watched him with his will 
balanced at 2 o’clock rest,
Perched fifty feet up high 
toward the end of a silver branch

when he notices me
watching Him.

He cocks his head, his eyes drop 
to tiny me,
He lifts his left leg dramatically, 
talon spread wide and up,
his eyes fixed toward me,

Sure he was about to pivot
to change 
the view-
Instead
He fell,
He tucked his wings to his sides and plummeted,
He fell.
My heart rattled,
Hart Crane.

And just when I could no longer see him, 
he rose.
Wings wide, he climbed with his will,
promptly doing a flyby down 
the empty driveway.

About intentions, 
Prometheus knows nothing of arson

He can only carry on
hot air to rise-
besides, 
Legends live too long, 
Atlas lifted all but his eyes,
too busy with the world and all
Fire and Friction.

Meanwhile, I am learning 
to lean on the wind,
like the crane floating offshore
feeling 
this is not falling.


Artwork By Kawanabe Kyōsai (Artlino archive) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...