poem

(untitled) Remember when you were researching Pinocchio as an epic hero, a scapegrace evading capture again and again due to the graciousness of the fairy with turquoise hair? A problem for the sleep-walkers again and again.

quote

 “The Constitution of any government which cannot be regularly amended when its defects are experienced, reduces the people to this dilemma—they must either submit to its oppressions, or bring about amendments, more or less, by a civil war. Happy this, the country we live in! The Constitution before us, if it is adopted, can be altered with as much regularity, and as little confusion, as any act of Assembly; not, indeed, quite so easily, which would be extremely impolitic, but it is a most happy circumstance, that there is a remedy in the system itself for its own fallibility, so that alterations can without difficulty be made, agreeable to the general sense of the people.” --James Iredell, Carolina Ratifying Convention of 1787

poem/fragment

 (untitled)

If forever is composed of nows,

and we’re all still asleep--

how meaningless would

that make things?

How could caring

only matter in dreams?

poem

 (untitled)

Remember when Emerson

mentioned that motif

in all lives where

the truth had been staring

them in the face

for some time,

yet in an instant became plain—

an idea, a thing, a person,

suddenly clear—

an immediate inspiration

to double-down

on participation.

Revised Prose Poem

 Untitled Prose Poem of an 1891 Magazine Article

Her swift rise of posthumous fame, her utterly reclusive character and then six editions within six months; a suddenness of success without parallel coupled with earnest demand by readers for further information about the artist who had sent a letter from Amherst in April 1862 to editor H. with the request, “to say if my verse is alive—the mind is so near itself it cannot see distinctly—and I have none to ask.”

In handwriting so peculiar it seemed as if the writer had taken first lessons studying fossilized bird tracks found in the museum of a college town—cultivated, quaint, and wholly unique; using little punctuation—chiefly in dashes.

In a handful of poems the impression of genius was distinct, along with the puzzle of what place it ought to be assigned—so remarkable—so elusive of critique.

In reply sought to gain time, to find out what strange creature he was dealing with, he offered some criticism—which she called Surgery—alongside questions she evaded with a skillful naivety

such the most worldly coquette might envy. In asking her age—“I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir.” Of her companions—“hills sir, and the sundown, and a dog large as myself—they are better beings because they know but do not tell—and the sounds in the pool at noon which excel my piano. I have a mother, brother and sister who do not care for thought, and my father, too busy with briefs, buys me many books, but begs me not to read—they are all religious, except me, and address an eclipse every morning, whom they call their creator.”

In reply to a letter of praise—“I have had few pleasures so deep as your opinion, and if I tried to thank you,

tears would block my tongue; I smile when you suggest that I publish—though that being foreign

to my thought as firmament to fin—for if fame belonged to me, I could not escape it—and if not,

the longest day would pass me on the chase so my barefoot rank is better.”

Asking for her picture, that he might form some impression of his enigmatical correspondent—“Could you believe me without?” she asks. “I have no portrait, but am small—like the wren—and my hair is bold,

like the chestnut bur—and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves. Much in the woods as a little girl I was told the snake would bite, that I might pick a poisonous flower, or goblins kidnap; but I went along and met no one but angels who were far shyer: so I haven’t that confidence in fraud which so many exercise.” Attempts to lead her in the direction of rules and traditions he soon abandoned in even the slightest degree her extraordinary nature.

Then in 1870 after nearly eight years of postponements he found himself at her home—a mansion large, square and brick, surrounded by trees, blossoming shrubs without—within, exquisitely neat, spacious,

cool, and fragrant with flowers. And after a moment of delay, was heard a faint and pattering footstep

in the hall, where in glided noiselessly a plain, shy little person beneath smooth bands of reddish hair,

the face without a single good feature, and eyes just as she herself had described—a quaint and nun-like look, as if she might be canoness of some obscure religious order, dressed in white pique and an electric blue net shawl—she came with two day-lilies, which she put in his hand, saying softly under her breath,

“These are my introduction,” and adding, in childlike fashion, “forgive me if I am frightened—I never see strangers, and hardly know what to say.’” But soon began to talk and continued almost constantly; pausing at times to beg he should talk instead—readily recommencing when he evaded, with not a trace of affectation, seeming to speak for her own relief, and wholly without watching its effect on her hearer.

“Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it. How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world—you must have noticed them in the street—how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?”

19x24" carbon abstraction

19x24" carbon abstraction

15x20" carbon abstraction

19x24" carbon abstraction

art note

 One of the interesting things about the scribble as a motif in modern art, is that because the gesture is administered by a hand and an arm, there's no way of doing so without evoking the phallus or the volva. Unless you're a Victorian and they're obscene, you ought to know that abstraction is always phallic or volvic and something to be heralded because it touches upon the very essence of us. I mean artisans in the past sold little penises with wings as tokens of good luck.

poem

 (untitled)

Who could ever blame adults today when they've been rendered into children? It's just like Cicero said, not knowing the past is to be a grade-schooler bickering about the best way to win a video game, while there's a real world outside.

poem

 (untitled)

And so here we come again,

out of our caves

onto the plain

of budding things;

poised to remind us

of beauty,

work to do,

and love to give.

Check out this title on Audible

The Reformation
By Will Durant
Narrated by Stefan Rudnicki

Listen on Audible:
https://www.audible.com/pd/B00OZ653UM?source_code=ASSORAP0511160006&share_location=player_overflow


Sent from my iPhone

photo

photo

photos 2, 1

 

poems revised

(untitled)

To the artist you've always been,

never ceased in seeking truth--

deceit requires guile and secrecy

but not all secrets are aimed to deceive;

falsity can present itself as beauty,

but beauty can only be—

where the back and forth at the speed of light,

between zero and one, stops;

where something emerges from nothing,

plain for all to see.

(untitled)

Walk the wire over the fire

of despair while balancing compassion

and courage to continue having faith

in the madness of the base-metal age

we find ourselves living in;

where it means so much

to you and I now; while words

accrue meaningless

to all but a few.

fragment

 (fragment) 

Walk the wire over the fire

of despair while balancing compassion

and courage to continue having faith

within the snares of this base-metal age

that we find ourselves living in;

where it means so much

to you and I now; while words

accrue meaningless

to all but a few. 

poem

 (untitled)

If the only reason we’re here

is because we want to be,

then please acknowledge the underlying reason:

the inscrutable beauty and majesty

of Sun and Earth;

it’s always what gets us through,

it’s always reason,

season after season

after season.

Xray Art: 1C0S4H3DR0N on Facebook

 

old poem revised

 A Favorite Word

My friend, a Black Belt in karate,

was hired to watch over a rich autistic kid;

he said he acted like he was

in a dream, he’d approach you like you were a

statue, and touch you on the shoulder the way

one does to test if something were hot, then

slowly look away in blithe thought, staring

off into the sky, a faint smile rising on

his thin lips.

And one of the many things his

family didn’t understand, was how the very

instant left unattended, he’d steal away

to where they knew exactly where to find him:

up-stairs, next to the attic window

sitting Indian-style, hunched over

a dictionary spread in his lap.

They eventually hid every one in the house

because they felt it was unhealthy

to get lost in words for hours on end.

I asked if the kid had a favorite word. My friend

asked him, and he did—printed out in child-like scrawl,

was the word Lepidopterological.

subbing notes

 It happened again subbing today: read a couple Pippi Longstocking chapters to third graders, and on the whiteboard were vocab words--totally separate in their application; like they were two separate things to know/learn. For instance, there was a part here some kids were atop a burning building and Pippi figured out how to rescue them and a "stout gentleman" was questioning her as she went about doing it. Did any kid in that room know what stout meant in relation to humans? That wasn't a word on the board, but during reading time, where they read what they wanted, shouldn't there be extra points for not knowing a word, looking it up, and reporting what it means? Maybe that's why the universe wanted me here now, to end the practice of storytelling and vocab as being unrelated.

poem

 (untitled)

The art is a shimmering glimpse of truth

using only words;

axioms as a staring point perhaps,

set up with some startling imagery,

capturing life as it’s lived

on Earth decisively—

like a sunrise gold

as paint on a relic

from an Egyptian tomb;

something easily imagined and unmistakable,

set to metaphor or simile,

that upon completion makes the jaw drop.

The Elephant Whisperer

 audio book, Lawrence Anthony 

Subbing experience

 

Remember when I was an artist? Now I get beat up by students and school admins; I mean, it's not that bad, but kind of. Today I had a class where the school librarian came in and read a book about a guy in Africa who saved some elephants from poachers, and afterwards/seperate was a vocabulary exercise, and all the words listed, related to the story they were just told; so on third period, after the librarian left, I asked everyone to take out a piece of paper--the eight graders didn't even have one--everything is done on iPads. So I found a stack of copy paper and had someone hand a piece out to everyone. "Wait? What are we doing?" They were actually shocked/disoriented to writing on a piece of paper. I asked them to write the title of the story (Thula Thula) atop the page; now list the vocabulary words underneath: Ineffectual; Indifferent; Pandemonium; Vile--off the top of my head this moment. "OK, how might we apply the word Ineffectual to the story we just heard?" A student replies that the government was ineffectual in protecting the elephants from poachers; another replies the fence was ineffectual from stopping the heard from breaking free of captivity. "How would we apply the word Indifferent?" A student replies that the locals were indifferent to the elephants. "What's the opposite of indifference?" Caring a student replies. "Who wasn't indifferent?" The guy who took the elephants in. "How about Pandemonium?" It was pandemonium when the elephants broke out, with the guy and his wife and helicopter buddy searching for them, a student said. "What about the word Vile?" Everyone replied the poachers are vile for killing elephants for ivory.

Was disappointing that the vocab and story weren't linked, like two separate assignments. Left papers with teacher so hopefully an idea moving forward; also, was the shock and disorientation of students when asked to write on paper.

Going on ten years

 since this was published; listing a group I co-founded. Time will tell: http://www.foavc.org/reference/R44435_20171115.pdf

Recent Dog Dreams (revised)

Recent Dog Dreams

Last night was another dream with dogs in it—

the second within a week. At first

they were small dogs—

all silky fur—and one might've been a fox—

I remember wondering,

gently running finger tips along

its out-stretched body

upon the dirt-grassed ground—

is this even a dog?

All were docile,

loving me, loving them;

a firm massage at the jowls

which they love so much.

The one last night was somewhere in a public space,

maybe a high school during teacher/parent night,

a hall where some had brought their canines;

and as came near, I greeted them in my dog voice

and set about that massage at the jowls,

telling them they're beautiful and the best—

“You da best—you da best.”

And then another wanted attention,

and a third, and others, and next in line,

seeing me looking to them, did a bow

leaving paws in front, arching back in a stretch—

a setter of some type,

feathered hair auburn and gray,

eyes watering with love.

Untitled Prose Poem

 Untitled Prose Poem

Ever seen someone walk in their sleep? Talk in their sleep? It means even when we wake up, brush our teeth, and go out into the world, we're all at various stages of consciousness, and we all know how annoying it is to be woken up; another way of saying ignorance is bliss; another way of saying that if you find yourself awake whilst everyone else is still slumbering, it's not lonely necessarily, just time to enjoy the coffee and the dawn.

untitled poem

 (untitled)

I want to be your dog,

but only if you let me

be a creature that

barks at the truth.

Recent Dog Dreams

 Recent Dog Dreams

Last night was another dream with dogs in it—

the second within a week. At first

they were small dogs—and one might've been a fox—

I remember wondering as I

gently ran finger tips along

its out-stretched body

upon the ground—

is this even a dog?

All were docile,

loving me, loving them;

a firm massage at the jowls

which they love so much.

Then last night was somewhere in a public space,

maybe a high school during a parent/teacher night

where some in the hall had brought their canines;

and as they came near, I greeted them in my dog voice,

and set about that massage at the jowls,

telling them they're beautiful and the best—

“You da best—you da best.”

And then another wanted attention,

and a third, and others, and next in line,

seeing me looking to them, did a bow

leaving paws in front, arching back in a stretch—

the eyes as large and deep as can be,

almost watering with love.

19x24" ink painting