xxxx - red maple

 
 

xxxx

transformations more numerous than becomings

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out the back window which in

the older the house the more certain

you’d be standing in

a kitchen looking towards out

a yard and garden

is a maple named red which captures

nothing of its essence

erupting phantom crimson soul

would be insufficient if

you were one who ever watched a maple red

dance among the chore clean bubbles cutting by a kitchen window

 

past where floating soul unbridled

we marched yard out to turn our dripping hands

from knives to saws

pruning puckers hands

makes turds from fruits

and is the word we use to cut away the parts that we dislike

like the wild hair of faces

or the wild youth in streets

or folk living solely in the wilds of our city

we prove we are civilized by the way we shape our sights

marched i and jon and uncle rick

to open up the yard

so the sun could bleed in

my maple red had done

its reaching much too low

do not fly too low says daedalus to his son

or the earth will pull you down

to the water, trees and stones

who taught us our invention

do not abide our own

so marched we out to lop a limb

which is as simple as a thought

and incredible as a task

novice and ambitious is a recipe for

failure, destruction, learning, creativity

and the laughter of our mortal nerves when our souls realize we’re near to die

so i can’t recall laughing harder than when maple red precipitated ricky from its bough

and his body scrambled with wild frantic

caught a rope to fuck oh my god down

i discovered then an inside war in the jumble of our oh fuck fumble

of our lungs that move as if through an inside understanding of the outside air

minds move only when they are struck

so such a mix of blows cascaded on the anvil of my skull

reluctance to severe red’s swaying elegant bough

fear to witness my uncle become a crippled mass

and the hidden complexity of simple stupidity

there are butterflies in the up of trees i’ve never seen in the down

as shocking small as autumn colors in the height of summer

when a leaf gives in to drought and gives itself to fall for others

if it wasn’t for what needed be we’d be

a bother if we were brilliant before it’s time

save we glow to pause a drifting moment in the warmth upon the day

who could we say is ready

to be reminded of the cold

 
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paint is a cast made of the painter’s movements, a portrait of the painter’s body and thoughts. … painting is an unspoken and largely unrecognized dialogue… paint is water and stone, and it is also liquid thought.

James Elkins
 

xxxix - supposition more accurte than reality

 
 

xxxix

3 + 5 + 7 + 11 + 13

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we are floating in a dangled space washed ashore and wrought to fit.  where are we is what we are.  how to know shapes our search.   identity shifts along experience towed memory.  that it is said, “WE ARE THIS,” gives comfort, with belief, and otherwise offends.  “we are this”, even when we’re nothing is enough to give us ends.  shadows haunt the density of light circling air within our lungs.  what we are, is our condition, hanging in the nothing like a vision.

 
 
 
 
 
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Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.


Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes
 

xxxviii - perhaps it is

 

xxxviii

88 - E

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to hell with _________

everything (is)

politics

speculation more accurate than reality

images are from my solo show currently on exhibit at wagner college:

https://wagner.edu/newsroom/wagner-college-gallery-exhibition-reception-oct-6/



 

“People seize on painting to cover up their nakedness. They get what they can wherever they can. In the end I can’t believe they get anything at all. They’ve simply cut a coat to the measure of their own ignorance. They make everything, from God to a picture, in their own image. That is why the picture-hook is the ruination of a painting – a painting which has always a certain significance, at least as much as the man who did it. As soon as it is brought and hung on a wall, it takes on quite a different kind of significance, and the painting is done for.”

Pablo Picasso
 

xxxvii - would you notice?

 
 

xxxvii

irregular star

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have you noticed how

the thoughts of others become your thoughts

though you don’t know

how your thoughts

became your own?

and now

you have to navigate a crowd

inside your individual head

just to get to yourself 

 

you might not even be surprised to find

that you didn’t know where you were

or if there was a you to find

and wouldn’t be able to say the things you think

to say 

should your sayings be spoken 

by another voice in the crowd

 

everyone would be in quite a huff then

because they know who said what

and said what when

you were just wandering around

trying to keep your feet on the ground

 

it might really make you wonder then

what makes for what each person can defend

and whether there is a right to thoughts

when everything is mixed and tossed

if it wasn’t for how you’ve set your set

would you notice? 

 

 
 
 
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the art of being a slave is to rule ones master.

Diogenes
 

xxxvi - junk food boogie

 

xxxvi

the sum of integers up to here

 
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do you suppose we invented junk food?

boring i’ve known

and left

bad company

he used a blender as a goldfish bowl

 

opinions keep you warm

so you won’t realize

if you’re peeing on yourself

 

my fav secret sauce

do you suppose junk food is all that new?

 

some cat

superfly said

you just gotta do you

hey mr bugaboo

 

sometimes i think age is a proof

sometimes discredit

 

opinions are like models

zip lipped

we can’t help showing them off

(if we got ‘em)

our collection of mundane oddities

 

what’s it mean if no 2 know anything as one

 

inside

 

(images)

we all have different pink elephants

students get told

imagine the old as a fresh stew

so few look new

to know from the delirium

 

thing about age

will i think it’s important after today?

act before

we loose

at the velocity of days

better to apologize

a funky beat review

cooo cooo kachoo

 

co-opting lifts the weight of understanding

 

maybe we can get rich

gallops around in us

machinations

hamsters i get it they’re cute and small

run run run

 

our pacing

i know

our know

what then?

 

do you ever get the sense

 

that we don’t think enough

 

about whether or not

 

we know if we’re lying?

 

(a way of resting)

 

where do you go when there

 

opining

 

is a word that sounds like special dreaming

where do you imagine yourself

a dreamer

being?

 

you know

like it doesn’t stop unless you don’t shine light on it

but we have to keep our guard in the dark

we know

we do strange things in the dark

 

common denominators get a bad rap

but that’s what jesus was all about

elites believe it’s they open things

cuz they’re special

isn’t it obvious

 

success is the most popular

(it makes itself and

 

destroys what else)

i suppose it could be

the other way around

 

opinions mix best when there’s no way out

because we want everyone to be with us

mostly in theory

 

maybe someone has been right

is enough

to get it

right?

 

here’s what it seems though

there is a funnel where everyone lives

with a hopper that’s only so big

it catches what’s left and shoves through a sieve

pick forks and lights flash it spits out to give

 

it must be the right way

as everyone pays to play

and i recognize you when you say

i could go for pizza

 

 
 
 
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think and wonder, wonder and think.

Dr. Suess
 

xxxv - the mantis and the monarch

 

xxxv

tetrahedral pentatope

 
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in the spring of my hopelessness i planted a garden

planting hope to dance my eye with bee or butterfly

and why i don’t know why why should

reasons confound as much they answer

 

and seasons sometimes turn without we notice turning

it’s better to plant when falls the fall

but no one likes to start

beginning towards the bottom

(even if that’s where your head is headed)

 

waistbent guise spies’ flowers of eyes

recalled myself a whelpling pup my brood conveyed a prayer

for the mantis pray she stay

(as her kind had grown so rare)

a careful seed then planted there

and seems to’ve grown a sad garden

 

where hope hoped for the traveler’s respite

from the motions and the paths and the seasons of hearts out of heights

(because we gain with our give) accursed or alight

little did we know that green nun was a shadow in the home safe night

 

exotic and terrifying poise

flew from her home to nunnery a garden

and stalks an invader would

plainly

hiding sundrenched flowers sway

dance deadly deception

you mightn’t know if she was watching

(and you wouldn’t if you didn’t look to know)

spell caught charisma

while we joyed our eyes

our flutter orange bird

at the time, there it was in my sad sunny garden

and was the only one

(i’d hoped a pair, as his kind had grown so rare)

popping out from plant to plant to bubble in a lonely glass of celebration

had learned to leap in seasons

far from here to just now there

each stride a step

each step a stride with reasons

springs summer’s height to winter’s fall

we change to meet our changing

(and such a transformation undertaken!

turns house a home and turning)

 

spirit suggesting something bigger than a butterfly

like the shifting of a weathered day

he was a lunging tiger burst floats auburn autumn showers

wondrous as wonderful and regal as repose

 

so many once there was they draped themselves

a shimmering garment tree proud grove

flickering waves a star shone giant

who being so strong had killed to prove it could

and so often done it wore its death with the grace of should

at times i think there would be no tragedy without beauty

 

the monarchs are mostly gone

we’d named their home a weed

(a word for that you’d rather do without)

and proved the world is made of things imagined

(because imagining without we do, we do without)

 

so glad my story i was i watched my flurry visitor

light about its unwanted flower home and brood

perhaps the world is a beautiful place

sometimes it feels like we could say for right

there are rhythms we can feel

there are rhythms in our flight

 
 
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i lost some time once, its always in the last place you look for it.

Neil Gainman
 

xxxiv - being the same

 

xxxiv

so many magic

Durer’s Magic Square

Durer’s Magic Square


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being the same

                                            in the look of a stare

      that i see what i see

                                             is it me in you or you in me

 

                                            if we say

   both

                                           does it answer

    2 questions

                          or do all the questions stay so they can be

 

better to avoid it altogether

                                                    death is scary

    and hunger is now

    how hungry we are

                                                    puts stock in our store

 

we notice differences

                                                             because being the same as we are

 and being everything we want

                                                             is too difficult a thing to be

 
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If something is good, you must torture it mercilessly until it is either dead or great

Brian Eno
 

xxxiii - becoming the world

 

xxxiii

transitions and fractions

 
 

 
 
 
 

becoming the world

 

-          a poem to my future child written by a past me (no parents, we are not pregnant)

 

my darling dear

my wobbling pup

the world is a place of danger and fear

the world is a place of ravage and cut

but don’t forget what brings you near

because the distance is the worst of it

so remember when you can’t

and remember when you won’t

that kindness my dear is an antidote

do not forget the power of kindness

do not forget the power of kindness

and the world will want to be you

and the world will fear your heart

and the world will be wanting

for you hope i

my darling dear

the confidence of kindness

 

be kind to neighbors

be kind to friends

be kind to jack and jill and jens

be kind to bugs

be kind to spiders

be kind to things that scare or despise us

such as it is

it’s a battle to care

it’s a battle to kind

it’s the battle that’s life

it’s the battle of mind

it’s a battle to dare

so you’ll have to be better

and you’ll have to be brave

you’ll have to be there

when the herd is there scared

and you will be hurt

and you will be taken

and you will be sifted and bruised and forsaken

the world will be jealous

the world will dismiss

the world will contrive

but the world will feel this

that the worst of it all is the distance

so don’t forget what brings you near

that the nearness you feel is the nearness most dear

and our hiding

from our others

and our hide form ourselves

with the thoughts of our weakness

and our visions of fend

in the hope of our safety and hope of our strength

make delusions a’many

and delusions that sink

be kind to the world

and be kind without fear

be kind with yourself

and be kind with what’s near

be kind to the world

my dear darling dear

and you will become its marvels

 
 
 
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we are confronted with insurmountable possibilities.

Walt Kelly
 

xxxii - contradiction is its breath

xxxii

a full set of teeth

 
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if it becomes exhausted

it dies

because there is nowhere else for it to go

--

and living is moving

no matter how slow

--

though it matters

because that’s what it is

--

because that’s what we call it

is matter the thing that can produce things

so we are

--

afraid to run too fast

or fly too high

or question with aggressive rigor

because what if we find out what exhaust us?

we’d know where we weren’t enough

that we were only enough for not enough

because there wasn’t anything more in us

it might mean there wasn’t anything more

--

so that if our doing didn’t matter

we would know for sure we didn’t

being

we are what

we do

--

and the space we filled is a vacuum when we go demanding                                                                    

--

contradiction is its breath

--

afraid to loose

for lack of finding

afraid to find

for what we’ll loose

you’ll want to hold your breath to balance

though you know you’ll have to do something else

--

you’re afraid you’ll be like it is

--

inexhaustible

--

and you’ll never get to stop

 
 
 
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“men must always be driven from the letter, for they love so to stick there.”

John Milton
 

xxxi - the whipping ends of broken hoses

 

xxxi

centered

 
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like the whipping ends of broken hoses, the arteries of the city sputter out in spluttered gushes snaking all throughout the mountains old.  the city’s folk in their city sets set out to find the beautiful jewels of the mountain clams.  it’s said they have the magic in the look of them and if one find finding well the magic will stick in your eye where everyone will see that your eyes are turned sparkling pearls.  but time on and now you’d have to dive quite deep if looking for the biggest and most magic of the magic mountain clams.  most seekers of the misty magic have long since thought to not, fearing the wear of diving too dangerous to fathom.  they’ll take a taste of what’s been left discarded and guess from the eyes of magic owners.  but, where hose ends meet their means you’ll see the hills and the roads and the trees, really everything flat, vertical and leaning, wet with a spray to match the lashing rhythms of their source.  it’s like you wouldn’t know the force from the faucet but where the land is dry liquids are quick on the eye.  this is and was a strange and captivating fluid indeed.  any and all the covered things become something, something much like what it was they were but nothing like it was they were either.  cast exoticisms casting glimmering shadows spangled quixotic confoundings.  you can imagine how the patterns on a brilliant snake startle and shout, even in its coiled sleeping.  (do they ever really sleep?) one would almost fail recognize what they were seeing with the colors and the shapes shaped so differently; a bloom algae lichen glow just this past long night rode the wave of the nightlong storm.  when the shutters clatter and the sounds cracked past walls and all the tree folk sway entranced in ritual dance.  they paint their bodies in their brilliant blues and greens and grays and slick themselves in oils to glow like finely varnished furniture come sunny sharp gleamed morning.  they adorn themselves for their celebrations in time.  that is their way.  the gold of fall is the gold of the air laid in a quilt on the shivering ground.  it quakes with anticipation.  cracked hands pull over covers as the early night creeps inches across the long lengthened shadows.  when time ticks its beat as we dance to keep our disappearing feet.  the world pauses in every revelation, and every moment is a benediction of itself.  if the night is an end, our days have become its fanfare.  the night is an end and we are an ending.  if only time would stand, we’d stop to see.  the cathedral of stone carves lines across the limber arching hills.  the forest and its dwellers are stretched into rows.  they click their heels to the rhythm of their toll.  was there ever freedom?

what is magic?  the magic seeker does not ask.  for them, there is no difference between the pearl discovered and the pearl made.  there is just the one who can make the space of many for one alone, an accumulation of their own-ness.  the long day fades and we fade with the day.  space in the dark is infinite.  the space in the dark is infinite.  squeezed into their boxes, the magic clams are pressed against their triggers, shucked and tossed aside in pile of our beautiful escape.  beside, the trickling downhill water streams a dream. it’s flowing flows past a million grains of sand.  

 

 
 
 
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No problem can be solved until it is reduced to some simple form. The changing of a vague difficulty into a specific, concrete form is a very essential element in thinking.

Don't talk to me about appealing to the public. I am done with the public, for the present anyway. The public reads the headlines and that is all. The story itself is fair and shows the facts. That would be all right if the public read the facts. But it does not. It reads the headlines and listens to the demagogues and that's the stuff public opinion is made of.

People without homes will not quarrel with their leaders. This is well known among our principle men now engaged in forming an imperialism of capitalism to govern the world. By dividing the people we can get them to expend their energies in fighting over questions of no importance to us except as teachers of the common herd.

J. P. Morgan