1 2 3 Eggs

new games deserve names:
Egg Shell Jenga
and rules:
you know when it’s time to make omelets
call me up, we’ll stay the night
throw down the shells
I’ll stack the fragile wrecks just so…
later they might
by miraculous natural calculus
bear my weight
I had the right answer, but wrong calculation
so now I’m out back
swinging a stop sign at your trees
one way it slaps, one way it slices
we can do loud
we can do deep
what would it have been like living
in your goldilocks zone?
not too hot, not too cool, not too close
the kitchen floor, it’s in
sha sha shambles
the yard strewn with branches
I’ll go, I won’t leave, but I’ll
go, go deep into the wonder
and I know you can’t follow me there
where plants transpire softly
breezes breathe life into street trash
sha sha shambles
but spiracles is such a pretty name
for the breathing orifaces of leaves
and as they breathe out
123 I breathe in
while litter dances in the breeze

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Escape from Meaning

I dreamt my pen rolled under the doorway to hell
and I wondered if it meant something
There was a train…
Don’t let too many doors close behind you, I said
The clock. It is a traitor
you never know what time it is
I groped through the darkness to find my voice
leaving a toe on the bright side of the threshold

One night I saw a village of
white houses with brightly painted windows & gates
then, under a screeching-cat wind
with pockets full of mud I clutched
a massive ring of keys in my gritty hands
as it rained, the whole world was unearthed
what lies through those bright gates and sills?
what is the price of discovery?

A grown man played with stuffed toy dragons
holding them up, turning them slowly, looking…
the magical idea examined in depth
the question of veracity lain aside
sometimes I was him, sometimes I watched him

The hourglass is slipping sands
Mitosis is running amok
while fireflies flash in the wood
while hunger turns me to a wild dog
while teeth crumble to pebbles
You never know what time it is

I’ve decided what most of this means
I’m pretty sure the cat wanted out of the box
Just as I’d like to flee but stumble instead
from one form of meaning to another
Maybe treading lightly will
prevent the web from sticking
if we’re clever enough for social commentary
covertly interjectedfor the ears of our kin

I could paint something whimsical
A portrait series of myself mounted on winged insects
A rosy maple moth, an emerald damsel fly
Only to unearth in foreign eyes
further meaning of more serious nature
My relative smallness either a mark of self-perception
or a statement on the nature of mankind

Thanks to Jung, thanks to Dali
dream dictionaries, modern minds scrying
dreaming in deepening spirals
mining, unearthing quantum gems
of meaning that never existed prior to discovery…
then they become so real, more real than the tangible
post-post-post-modern meta

the creative act modifies the subject-object relationship
through intent
And the perception of the product is modified
by the history of the observer
there is no escape from the subjectivity of meaning

So, I will paint an erotic series
of men eating ice cream cones
and women brushing their teeth
It will be erotic because I’ve made my intention known
So that it will be part of your history when you see it

But most meaning has nothing to do with anything real
Realize what that means?
It means: none of this is fucking real
Until it is
An idea can change everything

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echoes under the bridge

On the walk below the bridge
          light and sound
                    overtake one another
By turn warmth and coolness,
          hums and rhythms
                    lines and colors
In parts and pieces 
          by moments in sequence
                    a small human sense
Of the united, unfolding
          in the song of the traffic
                    the sun’s gilded slant
In my throat, the
          acoustic presence
                    of the inlet water
The drifting peaks
          and valleys shape the
                    clouds within my ear
And my eye
          Reflects again the
                    wave-scattered sun
I walk on the cement
          as the scene moves
                    through me
I am just reflection
          here I am  
                    only an echo
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4 letters

indelible, invisible
a four letter word staining your brow
i wonder if you know it’s there
i have my own: d-o-n-e
there once was a U and an N
away they flew like doves
from a statue whose stone face is content
to regard you a stranger
it’s not about a one or any one
but a hidden well of grief and shame
draped with branches and blossoms
forgotten by careless feet
until i crash through the garden
and rush through the darkness and splash
I look up and see a face framed in a small ring of light
only a symbol
that can no more can contain me
than extend a hand in aid
I know the footholds in the mossy stones
I’ll climb out
build an alter out of the branches
and throw the flowers into the flame

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messenger mystic mashup

the hidden world gushes and thrusts
apparently the body is full of seas, channels, and rivers
gates and jeweled palaces…
that is so fucking lovely but is it magical enough…
does it speak through the normcore in whispers,
tell us what we seek here at noodle world?

when you get out of your car in florida right now
your sunglasses instantly fog
is it the original dampness: this tropic swelter
or that of the cave which we have been seeking
as it inconveniences us with shadow and sweat,
with things that might be funny if they happened in a movie

i need an outrageous and mythic secret identity
i’m considering selling my services as an internet muse
mystical hawk-winged snow leopard spirit guide
or this americano is far too strong, an easy out
i might blame caffeine for delusions of grandeur

cute pet ideas: free to good home
i am as much my audience as you are
and have also been third hand a witness
to terrible things done to salamanders
in the name of science

we’d rather live off roots and berries
entraining softly in the cooling dusk,
in the absence of vehicles and sunglasses
with an autumn song or dream poem
a dance with our mother of the beetles
who insists in the power of small glossed wing shells
to alter the course of historical events
she wags her finger knowingly…

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Sinclair the rosy maple moth & myself

IMG_20140915_164233[1]in my world, the hero narrative is kind of a ‘thing’ lately. i am actively exploring/integrating/reinterpreting the hero mythos and Jungian archetypes, their meaning to myself, and how their significance has shifted as we progress(?) as a race.

originally, this was not my conscious intent. but the quest found me when i decided to undertake the series of paintings of which this is the first piece.

yes, i am riding a moth and his name is Sinclair. i remember this type of moth from when i was a child. it’s a cute moth. we are not likely heroes. but all the true heroes are unlikely. if victory was assured, there’d be no story.

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an untitled painting

oil on canvas abstract

oil painting on canvas
paintings like this are enjoyable to create because there is no pressure to commit to form.
also, the dynamic flow of colors and lack of representative imagery keeps the eyes moving.
this painting seems organic, and to me seems both vegetable and embryonic. seeds burst, flowers bloom. if it sounds like i’m referencing Georgia O’Keefe it’s purely accidental- who doesn’t like attractive vegetation?

 

 

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