barreling down the corridor
all of us warriors
bent on pickup and delivery
maneuvering like raptors
diving in and out as if for prey
steel bodies
rubber treads
eating up the miles
exhaling labored breaths
philly bound
a cargo of aesthetics
encoded in paint, wood, metal and cloth
fifty cents and out of the gate
hartford ahead
blue skies and orange trees
predators with radar hiding around the bend
winged feet
how long will this madness last
all of us fully complicit
there is no nothing that is not known
within the nature of being
yet civilization
confounds knowing
with illusion upon illusion
at best each element within culture
is a metaphor
for understanding that which can never be grasped
only hinted at
and poetic
seeing is the suspension
of cultural knowledge
and the aligning of vision and sensation
a resonant beat
an epiphany
art conjures
forging states of being
outside culture
trickery
in the service of freedom
manipulated words
upon paper
and images of banded tricksters
tucked into shop ticket holders
hung in a gallery space
make a proposition
about art
creativity
and experience
the artist
the magician
the creative visionary
the breather
projects images of mystery
transferring inspiration
into materials
with the new manifestations
having both their constituent associations
(the handed down language)
as well as their transcendent interrelationships within the new configuration
(evocation by way of organization)
the viewer
the participant
the creative visionary
the breather
plays
taking apart what has been arranged
recreating
and making a new proposition
one thing
becomes many things
and everything
kid you not
this is definitive
definitive (and decisive) (1)
art is a shield
(the art of the shield is an art itself) (2)
not for defense
but for protection, preservation, and nurturing
of hard won realizations and inspirations (1)
so that in times of struggle
one can gaze upon the shield
(inevitably struggling in that struggle)
to glean the nature of mystery (2)
having been gleaned before and recorded upon the shield
and be reminded (4)
(becoming repeatedly and repeatedly aware)
that one does not order reality
so much as reality orders us
(our lives are metaphor) (5)
"reality" itself is not ordered (2)
(or so one realizes with age and experience)
rather it flows (3)
strings of continuity stream forth (3),
merge,
meander (3),
double back (4),
(not unlike remembering or returning to what once was but is no more in this moment)
gravitate (1),
(with solemnity)
double back again by doubling back yet again (4),
explode (2),
explode
(explode)
contract,
and begin again
(beginning yet again)
so that again and again and again in times of struggle (3)
(whether that struggle be at the onset or throughout the unfolding)
we have the momentary advantage of being receptive to the unknowable
the mystery of creating (2)
or creation (2)
and can see that upon our shield
really see that upon our shield (4)
as we might catch a headline in a paper (5)
or perceive a line in a poem (5)
with clarity (1)
and impeccable wonder (2)
(and carry on inspired)
i've been making imaginations come alive
since my earliest memories
as a child
i held pencil to meat wrapper
or scissors to scrap paper
i remember drawing houses and feeling they were real
people too
i remember making a set of stairs of cardboard
leading to a throne for the mother queen
it wasn't as if the object were separate from me
the object was a part of me
or an extension
or i was a part of it
creativity issues through me
there is this flow
and i enter that flow
and i am carried away
and things happen not of my design
but become apparent
and are given form
symbols emerge
and move in the world
independent of my actions
call them creations
call me the hand
the vehicle
the midwife
but it happens
the world of art
becomes sophisticated
and there is a joining of forces
a grouping of the herd
moving in unison
like a school of fish
and the artist whose job is to see the whole from the edge
becomes one of many in the center
and perspective is lost
the artist returns to the vision of the child
moving from that place alone
from the center on the edge
where senses are one
and the intellect has a place
but at the service of joy and mystery
and creates
art once did not exist
it has become a specialization
like surgery of the eye
or surgery of the heart
before art there was that stranger
born amongst the clan
whose speech was measured and walk was dance
and who threw spears like girls
but didn’t he make nice blankets
nice bowls and nice fur coats
wasn’t it he who wove such complex vessels from grass
and discovered that wine could be made from sweet berries
didn’t he take good care of the old
didn’t he teach the children his crafts
didn’t he tell great stories around the fire
and didn’t he send the dead off well
didn’t he listen well
didn’t he care for the slow of wit
didn’t he love to make things beautiful
didn’t he love to love
and when the men folk came back from the hunt
who do you think lit the fires down in the cave
got the men off their asses to reenact their tales of bravery
shooting arrows at bison he had painted on the walls
wasn’t he the one just different enough that it was they who made him the arbiter
between man and woman
between fear humor hatred and tolerance
between the stars above and the very earth below
valued as he was still a lone man declared and consensus grew
the cock sucker must die
gathered about to pierce his heart
one by one their spears were lowered and dropped to the ground
instead they made him of two spirits
dressed him as a woman to ease their own fears
asked him to love them in hiding
told him he would have to do this for generations to come
yet they made a place for him
a place of honor just the same
were it not for this trickster and his many gifts
knuckles would be dragging the ground
the clutter on the table
five dried roses like crepe paper burned
and held together with a breath
a set of tarot cards
pens and pencils
a stack of watercolors
a wire, silk rose and wasp nest sculpture
dipped many times in white oil enamel
receipts
an italian vase
with a black matte earthen glaze
stamps and a calendar
a letter about my car
four years since it was purchased
happy anniversary
a calculator
a ruler
a knife
lastly
a list of art
to be created
between now and september
if one’s home is seen as a metaphor
for one’s own life
then i grow more dusty
more chaotic
more encumbered
by accumulations
the moles and warts of aging
dishes
pots and pans
pile at water’s edge
the sink
like flotsam
deposited upon the beach
by the relentless advance of the ocean
day in
day out
dust
permeates all aspects of habitation
slats that form the wooden blinds
become petri dishes
breeding grounds for particulate matter
even the spaces between the keys
on this laptop
harbor these persistent immigrants
works of art
climb the walls
like an aggressive vine
seeking out every available opening
to occupy
books and art magazines
collect in towers of babel
sculptures and artifacts
gather in gangs
asserting their dominance
claiming window ledges
table tops
and corners of the rooms
as their own turf
if i could
i would employ a caretaker
someone to spend their days
maintaining some agreed upon order
to shepherd these relentless assertions
of entropy
to behave themselves
yet there are moments
when it all has a certain baroque charm
not at all unlike
the unimaginably complex forests of plants
vines
bushes
and trees
outside these windows
that advance each summer upon this small home
only to recede come fall and winter
tidy under blankets of snow
there must be seasons within a home
as there are in nature
and by extension
within our being
and just as dust is ever persistent
so too we become dust
to float about within creation
to precipitate the formation of crystals
in the clouds
to rain down upon all
to continue cycles
so much more complex
than i can fathom
sitting at this table
amongst the books
art
artifacts
dishes
pots and pans
and the ever present dust
i will push back
to make some sense of order
but my order
will be subsumed
within the order
of the nature of things
if i didn't know any better
(and how could i for that matter)
i would guess that life is unfolding
a folded paper sculpture
returning to its original form
a sheet of paper
pulp on a roll
a tree cut down in its prime
a seedling taking hold in the soil
composted ancestors
accumulated dust from stars
the universe
(for that matter)
unfolding
returning to its original form
a sheet of paper
and upon that paper
faint but legible
the word
for the record
it would appear
that it is both our inclination
and our nature
to propose
possible arrangements
of visual
and conceptual
forms
call it art
call it science
call it divination
but whatever it is
our choices are vast
yet the effect singular
inspiration being the lasting impression
since life is challenge
and hope but a promise
we dig deep
search long
watch for resonance
and feel the grace of wonder
when what is seen and felt and formed
unsettles and intrigues
and we are reminded
to journey deeper still
the appreciation of art
(or flowers)
(or life for that matter)
simply put
the opening of one's being
to the light of day
in the garden
poised on quick wing
envoys with precious golden bundles
transfer coded letters
reaching back eons
into fluted tunnels
constructed of fine colorful membrane
constructed to receive these messages
in exchange for nectar
and then the transcendent gestation
and then the birthing
and then the casting of the seeds
to start anew
we are all of us flowers
artfully arranged in a garden of exquisite design
the orchestration deep within our nature
not within our contrivances
we are compelled to recreate creation
it is our nature
it is our destiny
each of us an artist
each of us creator
each of us creation
we are flowers
in a garden of exquisite design
sitting in the dark
watching a movie
might as well be
a cave painting
illuminated by fire
flickering light and shadows
in the dark
on a wall
the hunt goes on
intrigued by forms
not fully revealed
the seeking out
of sustenance
and inspiration
life is challenging at best
brutal too
and at times my life is as dramatic
as this sad story playing out before me
in this theatre
any theatre
i would turn away in horror
were it not for a persevering nature
within the character
on the screen
and in this seat
the trickster reminds me
there is little choice
at this point
i am left to create art
a joke
i have played upon myself
i create art because
i simply do not know what else to do
it is my nature to do so
and i do what i know how to do
and what i know how to do is sense mystery in form
simple to map
but impossible to explain
a stick of wood
a rod of divination
a jester's banded baton
allowance is made
for the possibility
that creation
is inclined towards revelation
within the dreaming
while ordinary life
extraordinarily bled of life
is elevated to commonality
the uncommon
signs directions
towards alternate routes
that lead to landscapes
shrouded in fog
rightly challenging any effort
to navigate such realms
since passage
is freedom
demanding endless effort
and awareness
and the soul grows so weary
but for the seeker
what else is there to life
but the searching
for the nature of
the twisted path
the spiraling
repeating
helix
of our being
destined to ask
why
when we have always known
the answer
me make
or we die
we spoke of art
between drinks
reminding one another
the origin of all creation
begins in not knowing
art
the enshrined articulation
an aesthetic penetration
a permutation
less a resolution
than a meditation
a bursting open
a spilling over
within this current present moment
holding breath and sway
while what once was
and what might be
matter not