Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category


In Uncategorized on 130211 at 2111

Easily located parklette
growls, linked with
yarns eyelining irony
in ditched christmastrees.
Late, choking thru work traffic,
the trolley tilts, letting
shopped-hat mirror-carriers
leer, petulant track-crossers
step until clangor makes
arched-eyebrow boot owls look back.

Parklette along walkways where
yarns line prickles of ditched christmastrees
growls link-clicks can eye it too easily.
Trolley-tilts make eyebrows arch at
petulant traffic cops letting
mirror-carriers choke up the work returners.
An owl looks back at late hats,
boots leering in clangorous steps
at the shops that track-crossers hurry to in irony.

Petulantly, I tilt my hat
toward the leers backing out of the parklette.
Boots traffic this link-clicking clangor of irony,
as your yarns choke on the looks which
arch and growl at the prickles in the tilting trolley.




In Uncategorized on 121024 at 1807

burn churns fecund trails
art grants coax even more art
even keel is deep


In Uncategorized on 120728 at 2215

Some brooms have plastic
when yonder, other alternates
don’t linger in the landfill.
And when will this river
revive its other faltering
which weep when the dam gloms
its glorious seep and floods the land?
I am in an uneven territory,
very tense when whores are
slammed as demons, when
dicks and coffee become
Feminism is not an aphrodisiac,
and television is not practical.
Actually, I’m tired, and I have narcolepsy.
Speculate what spins the genes of stationary
tall stolid cedar trees.
Smell fire, pheremones,
and weep when the goddamn
pee floods the porta potty.
See these naked twinkling glitter ravers,
and ask if
the trick of coffee is a sedative,
to be a pony with stripes weaponized,
unlike the zoo zebra, whose ruse
and unnameable mane became
black and white so you
can’t treat
your appetite
with flippant wants,
with clicking the OK
upon the rippling

Banksy “Documentary” at Battelle Film Club

In Uncategorized on 111021 at 1936


I am not going to say much about this film. It speaks for itself. Every work of art speaks for itself, right? Don’t answer that.

I recently started meditating, and so have been learning about the variety of Eastern philosophy. I have been quite surprised at how united these beliefs are in a certain central concept, Non-duality, which is to say, if I may appropriate a quote: “Let it Be”, or perhaps: “Don’t worry, be happy”.
This concept is in total contradiction with the history of Western thought. Going back to the ancient Greeks, our society, and thus the way we in the West have learned to approach the world, is fundamentally one of debate. Sometimes this is described with the obtuse word, “dialectics”. You might say science, itself, is less of a process of proving things as they are than it is one of distinguishing, differentiating. “Is” vs “is not” is at the heart of Western thought. We want to unlock the mechanics of the universe with this science stuff, and it is the binary logic of mathematics that enables us to try to do this.
In linguistics and literary theory, there is a concept called “hermeneutics”, an even worse obtuse word! (I always cringe when I hear that… does the person who utters the word “hermeneutics” truly expect you, the listener, to tacitly understand what they’re talking about?) Well, I won’t be so irresponsible or arrogant; I’ll tell you – hermeneutics is just that – it is the phenomenon of interpretation, wherein the meaning of something predominantly depends on what the worldview and experience is of the person who is doing the interpreting. The best example is biblical interpretation. The entire sixty-something books of the Jewish Talmud is a tit-for-tat back-and-forth report of a whole assortment of historical Rabbis, one after the other, interpreting the Jewish law one way, then interpreting things another way, then another, then another. The whole purpose of such an endeavor is to try and understand explicitly and truthfully what the author meant. My interpretation — of these sorts of endless interpretations – is that it all comes down to opinions.
But I bring this up because, as you experience art, or any medium of communication for that matter, it is useful to consider the author, the originator. It is useful to do this, but it is not essential.
In two weeks, on November 1, our next film we will show here at the Battelle Film Club is “F for Fake”. It is only a coincidence that we are showing it back-to-back with “Exit through the Gift Shop”; Orson Welles’ final film is a lyrical, exotic, persuasive, entertaining film specimen, unlike anything else, although admittedly many reviews of “Exit through the Gift Shop” mention it as a blatant inspiration. Anyway, it is an essay about authenticity. At the same time it is a magic trick, a masterpiece of editing. It is a shame we are not showing it first.

Now back to my highbrow lecture, bear with me. Let’s talk about academia. At least in the social sciences, in the West, professors make an entire career on dialectics and hermeneutics: debating, describing with analogy, drawing lines, creating categories, breaking up older categories, employing contrast, etc. While not every academic would be cool to call it this, I’d like to call it all: “criticism”.

And now, here is the center of what I’m saying: there is a sinister word haunting Western society currently: “Postmodernism”. The very negational act of naming it has completely shrouded its meaning, at the same time as being an example of its own method. But it’s everywhere, in every intellectual publication.
But before I try to define, and tie in “Postmodernism” with the movie we will, in a moment, get to watch; let’s go back to “criticism”. In a wide range of disciplines, in the arts, in philosophy, in sociology, linguistics, political science; professors are steeped in a contemporary trend called “critical theory”. This encompasses things like the aforementioned “hermeneutics”, it encompasses theories of inequality (that of gender bias, ethnicity, economic status, sexual orientation), it dwells on “post-structuralism”, and “deconstructionism”, unreadable authors like Foucault and Lacan, Judith Butler. In essence, through all these big words and concepts, the academics have tried to capture the essence – the very meaning – of a thing, as though it were universal.

Then along came the Dada-ists. They challenged the world with “anti-art”, challenging you with the possibility that a thing might have NO meaning. In return, once modernism caught on, academics tried to delve into this supposedly meaningless work CRITICALLY. They appropriated big words like “hermeneutics”, and thus gave it meaning.
Then came Fluxus. “Happenings”. Get out of the art gallery, art is an EXPERIENCE, it cannot be commodified or auctioned. Of course the critics cerebralized that, too. And people started to put a ticket price on that too, admission.
Then came the Situationists. Hugely influencing the rebellious artists of our upcoming documentary, that art movement took absurdity further, in order to promote their Marxist politics. They also took the “Happenings” of the Fluxus movement deeper, and out onto the street itself, by creating artistic SITUATIONS in public, often ephemeral, much like the “flash mobs” of today. They purported that art is not art unless you live it and experience it. It cannot be frozen on a canvas, captured, and replicated; its meaning does not come from its critique. The statement it makes is inherent in the experience.
Of course the academic theoreticians and critics assembled a vocabulary to talk about that, too.
Yet every artist has a heartfelt intent behind each work, the thing that compels them to create (and as we see in this movie, sometimes dangerously). Hermeneutics asks whether that matters; what YOU bring to a piece of work, as an interpreter, as an EXPERIENCER, your mindset makes much of the artist’s intent moot.
But a good artist is like a good prankster – they trick you into experiencing their art a certain way, based on an expectation of what your worldview might be. In this movie you will observe so-called “street artists” at work (note the great difference from graffiti); these clever vandals have become well-known now and accepted as a historic episode of art (by the academics and critics, of course), primarily because they excelled at setting you up for a particular experience, much like a good comedian. I think it is fair for me to assert that the topic of their art is largely political; that is, they are coercing you to think a certain way.
Here’s where that troublesome phrase, postmodernism, comes in. The street artists, as with nearly every contemporary artist that the academics and CRITICS talk about today, are not only trying to get you to think a certain way. They are trying to get you to think a certain way about the process of trying to get you to think a certain way. Postmodernism, although it is an elusive phrase with many meanings, often applies to the use of the artistic devices of irony, ambiguity, and lack of finality in order to establish a sort of circularity, a tedious or even arrogant self-referencing that aims to lead critics on a wild goose chase, or to trap them in a contradiction. In essence, postmodern artists are actually just practitioners of “late modernism”, which is still the same thing Dada and Surrealism and Situationism ever were – the subversion of rigorous scientific meaning that has commodified not only art but also the art’s supposed meaning… you might say that Postmodernism is a “questioning of authority”. Such artists hope that we will be like the Buddhists, and accept each experience as it happens, as it is, without judging it, without speculations.

Please, as you watch and enjoy this excellently-told story as it unfolds, think about the author. Ask yourself, who is Banksy? You are given a glimpse of a person who may actually be the elusive “street artist” Banksy; but then remember, it is Banksy who is making this movie. What methods would Banksy use if he were to make a movie?


In Uncategorized on 110916 at 2113

dear deep still pond,

I do still deeply adore you, you steep rebiana in me, and your quill, even electronically, starts a rumble in me. I swoop up at the alarm and go forth, holding a count-to-three deep breath and affirm, even upon drawing an oracle icon saying “sorrow”, I will someday glow with the sweet miasma we see every sundown. I will leak my periwinkle and tawny peach light on every inch of the hidden bog and make friends with the shadow which boasts to be the undermine of my patient heave. I hope to alight out of pensive sleep and jump up, and swim bank-to-bank of the pond, collating a nook of the tenderest moss, a pillow for the pates which tire from ceaseless dream during the day. Oh, dear pond, ponder how one would wake deep in the woods with no melodica? A harmonium’s too heavy, but one must have a tune to float ripples upon. Oh, sweet pot of rose and damiana, fume for me the ancient murmur that the lake makes, all its algae tingling with their memory how once they were the queens. We small owls grow sinister, we sea otters wreck the kelpthicket, we metal ave’s don’t bellow, only buzz, this stiff jet’s tress will not billow.

I want to irk time, hour to hour by poking art at it, shoo you modernist malady, I dare you to continue telling me about finality! Let’s carve a rustic globe out of oak to emulate infinity, an orb which can curve ceaselessly and never let an edge but the magician’s chisel take violence to thee. Oh pond, oh palm which dribbles low at the edge of the cypress dome, how does the undulating harp hold its breath? When will the wreath be ready to accept the leaves which the mistletoe ejects from the tree? I yearn for the wide umbrel of the frond to allow us to abscond from the sun, to weep joy in the breeze but not the wind of the Chinook, which damages each petal of the pretty Queen Anne, wrecks the Artemisia and rips it from its roots, to tumble until some metal mesh quells its interminable tattle. No ninny will harm me when I rest with the Quercus and elm, when the gurgle of brooks have goaded the emerald diadems to forsake the unslake-able stomach, to abandon the marble, the red-sable, the cow worship, wheat-waver, tabby who isn’t a match for a real meerkat. I want to be that, to be the stone which does not jut, instead geode, secret feces which admonish everything except harmony.

But I am a photodiode, almost square, and though deep and moreso resplendent with the taunt of whatever ornament might color your dreams, my yore is unwrappable, my ripple unstoppable, my silicon pane of screen can never be still.

Kind friend, please await a less nuanced tiptoe I’ll soon dance over to you, in alephs understandable, but meanwhile know this tenor of my pastry-pie, its pecan-crust crumbles from weak mortar, the sullen crackle that the stoic calendar grid episodically suffers.

I preen and coo, despite my derailleur’s rattle,


In Uncategorized on 110805 at 1905

At work I see my funny comrade from the Ukraine rifling through the shelving. I ask, “whatcha lookin for?” and he blurts a harsh syllable soundling like ((SHLOMM)).

Many machines whirr and creak from motors running the bioreactors in our cell cultivation laboratory, and anyway my hearing’s going from listening to too much electric drone on headphones, so I coax him to repeat the word, and under his guttural accent, it’s still unclear.

He provides me with his typical scowling countenance, astounded that smart Americans can be so stupid. “Everyone in zee warld knows zis word. Come on, shlonn.” I approach close so I can hear the full enunciation. It’s unmistakable now, ends in “N”. Shlonn.

I scratch my beard, never heard it.

“Eez in Russian, in Ukranian, in Macedonian, in Greek, but only Eenglish doesn’t have zis word!”

I ask him, “is it… uh…. something inappropriate?”, and earn myself another astounding convergence of his eyebrows.

He quips, “come on, any word can be dirty word!”

But then his eyes clack and Sergey smiles at me, amused, and says, “But iz usually jossed a piece of schlong,” and smirks back into the box he had pulled off the shelf, ruddy as he rejects a length of tube to be too wide to suit his experiment’s needs.

110503 – Birthday wish for your beacon or lessons how to waft.

In Uncategorized on 110503 at 2154


An open letter to my extant pals, as i arch toward pragmatism and subsequently tear a tendon,

Tomorrow i turn thirty-one. To boot, i’ve been “downtrodden”, more than a bit. I’m not normally the sort to wave a calendar date in the wind like some flag; each nation is imagined by borders just as each year is a unit signifying several hundred days and some seasons. And though there is some truth to that odd cosmic revolution which sentimentalists think evokes epic boundaries, i want each moment considered on its own. Unfortunately, i have been in such a strange whir lately that these moments have lost their boundaries, and time has become an either-nothing-or-everything blandness. I’m trying real hard to break out of this.

Maybe i myself am some other sort of sentimentalist. I certainly hold great value in my connection to all of you. I simply wish i had the time and peace of mind to put the pinwheels and lavender sprigs and sundry other ornamental whimsies of my imagination upon on the lapels of the dreams of our collaborations which ceaselessly percolate and untether me from the discrete duties with which a responsible adult is typically efficient. Please know that my fondness for all of you swells just as my kitchen floor collects the gravelly broken acorn shards of distraction which this somber squirrel not-mindfully he-himself has strewn about.

Fear not, i will never marry to the receding shadows of morbidity (but may i take a portrait of the foggy colossus, at an oblique angle, under dusk’s queer hypotenuse; or lean under the flicker of the rustic gaslamp as i form a modern prayer and jot in my list-journal all the things i know i’m not?), and moreover i have long had a steadfast optimism (before George the Second ruined the word (and the world)), and i am eager to set myself on a straighter path, not for the ordinances of the right-angle-only world of cardboard boxes, but to rather aim me closer to those galas in my mind which i pray we will both be at in neon rayon plucked from Frank-Oak-Berk’s eclectic freeboxes. I peer up at the castle’s parapet and hope to ascend someday, so that i may wildly infloresce with tufts of art and the mellifluous odors of a beecolony’s diligence. My sorrow is that, despite intent, i and my deeds may not nudge the frail idiocy of our machine-aeon fallacy one slender and honest micron back toward the benevolent realm of logic (yet of poesy) and of kindness and health and justice and ecology. I have not lost my proclivity to savor reverberant timbres as they echo, nor to appreciate the handsome provocations of a nuanced peach-and-teal-and-tan color-palette, but, i confess and hark, i have been largely inactive.

It is thus that i request from all of you sweet owls and swans an earnest entreaty for a strange sort of birthday present:

Please offer me nothing tangible (lest you donate fiscal digitals to the campaign to free my friends from their ill plight as symbolic hostages by the governance in Iran – query the computer using the keyword “freethehikers” to follow up on this ask), but rather please offer me a sincere and moist Medjool date from your transcontinental rucksack; a monocle to peer at hope like how i once would saddle myself through the lemony goldenrod’s spring revival amidst the high desert’s plant adversity; or perhaps offer a tender sliver of your finest appellations, just a dram, a morsel of advice or recommendation. I need not any plain “cheer ups”; like formulaic notecards it would, in truth, proclaim instead an emptiness. And if i overwhelm thee with my oddity, faretheewell; I have never been afraid of my idiosyncrasy. But what i lack yet want are tactics, to reach the highest limbs of the avocado tree without thinning the discs as i crook back my neck. How do i make stew without burning the pot? How does one ever coax a cream-colored countertop to remain somewhat white, keep the junkmail sternly admonished, the wisps of plastic bandage-backings out of sight?

I am lost in the labyrinth of mundanity, and stand aghast at the mirror, for the first time with notice of the purple droop under my narcolept’s eyes. I have been in exile from myself all along, bullied into denial until now i admit finally: i have heretofore been suffering a lifelong malady silently, this clinical inattentivity. Quite literally, i must learn how to not scratch each perpetual itch, to find the thumbtack without the need to squint from among my messy crayon drawer strewn with staple rails and paperclips. How, without grumble nor prattle, do i hold myself accountable for the tasks i promise all people i will complete? I want to be swift, yet float on every waft. I yearn to be prudently rich, to delete all instances of my inefficiencies, before i get fired, before i am too old to sally these bones on the train to neighbor cities or bike trek across the lava basalt without worry or complaint.

I invite in this new numeral which i must remember all month to name myself with, and beckon, oh aging, i want to cower no longer, bring me the coherence i earn with such a backlog of fine wishes, not this harrowed complexion, not confusion! & yet, i know not how i will make myself remember that, if ever were i fit to be claimed by a date, i set before myself a destiny to bake earthy crumpets, with each of you, and for you, and for your children, ad infinitum until this empire of thinkers deflates the teeming planet or is jettisoned.

Much laud to you comes apoke up out of my frustration and being sad,
Thanks for being beaconly,


In Uncategorized on 110228 at 2021


Only to stand behind,
feeling I am already informed and I am happy,
sometimes all these categories have formed.
Like a comprehensive approach
or a misleading sense of fiction,
the different models scramble;
they remove my nonneurotic conviction.

Or like a central structure,
in the blue paisley cloud, distinguishing,
she notes the thick manual,
and I’m mesmerized.
I find I’m forgetting everything.

It’s meaningless to me, and throbs.
It’s leaky, the ritualistic displaced American;
wavy lines are unreliable, unmasterful.
I lack a hermeneutic, I cannot straddle it.
An unfamiliar expressionism
bounces me further back again.

Attachments need only step through,
throughout a thick indeterminacy.
A functional semiotic such as those painted trees,
can recast this migration as modernity.

To the French seraphim which seem
to follow that line’s edges, let me
confer with your spontaneity
and echo an etymologist:
remove your Derrida from this uninterpretable regime!

101106, 101208

In Uncategorized on 101209 at 0241

Sitting by the river after seeing my new psychologist, I’ve hardly slept, so I wonder whether sleep is even necessary, I could stay up writing, lay on the floor for a few hours, maybe four, if I could only find a way to endure the awful waking that motes me. It’s an autumn Saturday and I gape at the foliage, Stipe fuzzy and ominous on repeat, I rock in this hanging seat, donated “for” a troop of scouts (so the placard states) and I approve, I’d rather it than sit somewhere in one of the many park seats made in memoriam, I don’t want to mingle with the empty memories of the dead. (Now, if those placards, instead, said of the loved ones’ legacy some important sentiment they once had embodied, something important worth waving around, not just another name on a stone, the wasted space of tombs, however elegant the engravings are, then I might feel better sitting there, then I’d go all the time, make it my riverside shrine). For all the religion that causes wars, or foreigners squeezed into small neighborhoods, the problems how any colorful people feel stifled in this almost-rural town, thus emptying it of activists, artists, it surprises me that we don’t see spirituality in the street. It suggests most of those people pray in a way that is trite. Where are the hijabs?, not that that’s anything to purport, can’t be proud of a patriarchy even if it’s more mindful and intentional and full than the necklace cross, or the businessman’s only jewelry, a wedding band – none of it’s wholesome, all is infuriating. I wear my beard, isn’t it obvious?, the gurus, the scientists, the sculptors, the rabbis, people ask why, people pass by and only see leaves on a lawn and think “nice”. They never ponder the river, its island only paddlers can walk upon, or the way the tree is colored more on its south side, perhaps even the lines of tension in the different types of tree-bark, though there is nothing alluvial beside this cementpath. The locust doesn’t lean because in its early years almost all of its limbs had been pruned. I’ve never been a good arborist, even after allowing that it’s all non-native, such stewardship feels like making ruin. I have to have endurance if I am to garden, not for the stooped work but the weeding, not for the time but the need to spread lime sometimes, the way the best ecologists aver that their fruits taste better using manure, compost can never stoke things enough. Poop is, by default, dirty refuse, poisons jettisoned, and then the plants will say thanks, I’ve got a deep-pocket vacuole for this, junk in the trunk, we think it’s wealth but it’s weight, it’s a mess. Here is my paean to legumes, a long-latent hanker to have lain out its conduit. I handshake the dog yet never pet its walkers, but at least some of the older perambulators nod hi with their heads, just a slight subtle tilt. My reflective badges on my backpack (really reclaimed from those things hip businessmen affix to their pantsleg to protect their fancy slacks, prevent them from flapping into the chain of the bike), they distract in the daylight, clashing the circumstantial subtlety, the commercial drab that permeates the thrift, o monochrome!, I do my best to collect it into an earthy olive aesthetic, an Ilex-loam-sage sensibility. The tether causes the dogs to surpass each itch, to not become sullen when prevented to sniff. This is the path. Though the sailboat still’s able to drift, we pump our rudder to get where we’re going; or, who am I kidding, suburban adventuresmiths never embark with no emergency motor, know CPR but trust that the cell has a satellite to beam queries at, search the rocks of the shore for a cache, exchange an egg-encased toy putty (invulnerable to the eternity it might sit until the next bored engineer searches for it) for the small Brontosaur inside. I want, golly, the city with aesthetes. When two men run, or one with no shirt on, why do we suddenly assume we know what’s inside the bedroom? The fuzzy husky which once was a wolf hangs its tongue. It could kill a squirrel, sure, but it can’t take a porcupine, its ancestors’ forced sorting made it dumb. I say hi to anybody, the pause to look up helps me hunt the right name, for something that almost rhymes, I cap my pen as I ponder, mustn’t dry out the lavender ink, what word can serve allure to my jots, assemble an ornament which won’t clutter the lapel of the garment with brass bling. Oh my, is that actually a car on the island? Maybe I’m mistaken, a fragility to which I’m always open, maybe there’s no river-margin on the opposite side? I hate how I’d thought down about an anarchist, he who’s renamed himself Locust, imagining animals genetically gluttonous as they, like bland yuppies following the fruits teeming near the passels of artists, avocados just dropping from their asses with every wind, crowd fields in a pestilence. I’d had to hock and expel spit, thought, Why entice what is ugly? Yet, I now notice, in my riverside seat, swinging idly: perhaps he had actually named himself for the leguminous tree. Gleditsia. I and many (yet I cannot categorically say “we”) are arrogant, and will push and puff chesty I-know-I-know’s, if I could be a bird I’d caw “I-am-a-dinosaur-rawr! I-am-a-dinosaur-rawr! Kookely-Coo! Kookely-Coo! Dinosaur-rawr! I-am-a-kookely-coo!” Lupine is poison, its dominance still allows all shades of purples, an atypical monoculture, causing the hill to glint like an opal. Wow! Have you heard, yet, you can eat it? We were told, by the head ranger, not to tell that the teatree in your toothpaste is Melaleuca actually, because we can’t have them return again, this paperbark lycanthropy, after we spent decades to evict the dense tree-weeds from Florida — like the red peppercorns planted as hedge, the source of the cypresses’ lollygag, hopelessly here forever, yet we kill it whenever we can, whack the machete to sever the stem and move on — some dumb industrialist or myopic permaculturist would undoubtedly cultivate it, its wet-toiletpaper-roll laminar bark, a ceaseless sponge of moisture, would make excellent fiber, an interesting easy harvest, just peel the three-inches-thick layers of wet bark once a week. I ask the churches, why don’t they wonder what the dog does with its thoughts when it momentarily aches and barks back? The dust in the metal’s tamped relief is fascinatingly pretty, causes an opportunity to ask, why is it shadow we quiver after? We find allure in contrast of sharp life with the streaking effect of the reflection provided by rivers, with squinty un-essences, hummed songs, our poetry intentionally obscure. The bright russets should say “weep, it’s the end,” but we congregate our family to the camera, trap them in front of the poor vascular tissue, tender and withering and madly announcing: It’s winter. We have enough sap to last; what about you? Soon the squirrels will be feeding trifles to you. I shop at the Lazarus, estates of impetuous grandchildren, split the marble collection, the remnant of someone’s struggle to transform defecation, a lifelong line we turn into fetters. Fie! These two teenagers, passing now, match, emerald dye on adultered cotton, not understanding that their flippant needs, pubescent caprice, can be filled, like the glamour of puckered pink icing on cupcakes; style’s an experiment, tasty and ephemeral, but someone still must do the design of it, nothing’s left after people’ve eaten it. You can’t call quilting a craft, it’s too littered with choice, and heck the whole thing’s contingent on picking from available scraps, the art is to dream then select. Some of us like mutts, appreciating anythingness or sometimes the earnesties which force mulattoes labelless. My hair is there because I’m a man, bushy because my parents fated it so, sort of, they probably didn’t know, and anyway, remember the lupine’s opal. These are two different bicycles, sir, but thank you for admiring mine. One won’t ride well off the street, could be because of the hidden liner one lacks, tucked protecting the other’s tire from its “underneath”, a barrier for those ubiquitous puncture-vine seeds; or could be its history, a wholesomeness, like a language’s meter & timbre making idiosyncratic New Yorkers, impulsively boasting and arrogantly harping, influenced by Italian’s inherent bounce. Still there are poems written only with certain words, take Perec and Calvino, can’t compare them to Shelley and Melville. If you saw solely the surface striated by current, would you be able to say that inverted dappled reflection’s a tree, nevermind name it? The problem here is picking a favorite: wanting dusty chiaroscuro in a placard, or staccato calligraphy?


In Uncategorized on 100930 at 1757

I thought there would be buzzing.  Twitching, tottering, nervousness.  But instead I still go in, calm and saying I’m determined, until the end, on my bike on the ride home, rolling through the warm autumn, moon low but looming in magic, that everythingness the Buddhists say bears awareness.  Then, traversing the somber night, observing the alterations of the trees, the shadows on the fields of sage, I see my life being flayed, torn in two, or two-thousand, the sever of my ever-persistent dreams and brainstorms from the objective diligence that is shriveling somewhere in the burrows of my mind.  When I once damned the day, the hark of work, which demands a microscope, the narrowed peripheral, perhaps the slay of poetry, I helmed the motor, boarded buses to take me where I say I want to aim, not stray as one wends through museums, or worse (and what must have murdered my momentum early on) – the traipse through television’s maze, the distraction of prismatic sound & vision.  I aimed, with those moments of the regret at night, to get sunglasses, to tint everything tan, to not become a fractured, fraying man, not get fired from my rising perch at the ivory lab, to seek the chiseled edge of diamondwork, hurry with my lapidary strides, pluck poetry from all sides, yet continue the duality: a scientist-artist, a poet-doctor, a superlative ruminator, make metaphor and equally hypothesis.  But I cannot sit.  With the strange inner beckon my tearful night magnetizes in me, I also angle every possibility and meander randomly, never noticing the time tick down, never having a hallway to hurl myself down, on wheels.  I must fix the swivel of my casters on this cart, cement it out.  I must dedicate each day to the tasks which will bring a gleam, or grow an open heart.  I must evict out the dirt that I fleck off, somehow unspeckle myself.  Will that make me monochrome?  For the first time I feel the deep syrup of a lone lump of coal, the fume everyone wants to use, but eschews.  I must make my melancholy happy.  I must misreflect the gleam of the glittering throne, out of my eyes, and lacquer this parlor with stately stained rich mahogany, make stolid the long reach and reduce the lurch, and aim away from worry, away from clack, to hoot not cluck, to bellow like the mellifluous owl, who hunts at night for love and sustenance, but maybe make this wing nevermind (or love!) the sun, put pigment on my skin, don a visor on my crown, keep the dark spectacles always on.

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