a hesitation, if there is before the moment ‘too soon, too soon’ but the blue tone comforts in surely at the end when faced with the reality and all horror falls away when faced with the certainty and all doubt fades away; if only, we could recall the singular moment of our birth that first light on first eyes from the emergence a transition from womb-night to this waking dawn and here with this- the mystic the last stop for us to visit in this instance not too soon, in fact as meant not pre-ordained but locked in the hand there is no struggle or even if there were to lay eyes on the mystic for one grand last time and give thanks for time passed.
notes.. I post as I write, rarely do I edit my work, so it is not as perfect as I would like…. so neither am I… so enjoy, or not, either outcome is fine, all thoughts are welcome, I post the art for eyes, let them pry let them gauge.
on the hollow steps of ghosts am I wondering if my part in this play remains even in this spotlight life- as a dandelion seed cast up-out upon the winds seeing, fortunes rise and fall great, empires crest into decay so I may – wondering if my played part remains never touching the ground to fully sprout nor meant to be regardless of this known form on out spawn cast out among the living sea (of air) leaving no discernable trail nor chapters verse hardly laid a mark upon for that seems to be the course for that seems to be my curse steered by those foul tradewinds of- my birth.
on glan day oh eudmhor gh’st on wind doe haunt on gales doe ride cross’t o’er beinns cross’t o’er sruth as heart of t’land as souls of t’earth bound by past t’and future’s know
note: so this came to me, in words in my head, to write this in somewhat gaelic. yes, that is strange as I really do not know my true lineage being adopted… but I don’t care or question things anymore when they pop into my head, I mean, hey, I am not a psycho I think, I just have a different input to the muse to amuse and paint my art with words, so here they are so, unfold… all thoughts are always welcome.
from afar a cold blank stare for generations the bright capture’s the eye then with robotic lens aimed – (I see now, for myself)– ice the sky is your upper atmosphere but the ceiling painted with cracks like ice on here firing sky scrape plumes out into space plummeting down to the surface and beyond in rings for below this dead frozen mane a great sea does froth and move gravity squeezes and bends the dome all inside this hidden domain does life? does life… begin or remain? the answer will come to us one day but until then … ? let an octopus dream – in a her own pen
notes: I am of the belief there is life in our solar system beyond the Earth, and even more wonders out there beyond our tiny solar system… so there is many layers to this poem in that respect… but make of it what you will, I can only write and let other eyes and minds decide.
notes… just a snippet of mine, when those we love pass away, they leave our every day, but sometimes the best things remain, a saying, a voice, a time, a memory, an ice cream on the boardwalk on the jersey shore, a beat up beach chair, the smell of a cheap white owl cigar, shooting the shit with neighbors long gone on a rock on the lawn, the white grilled cheese at the port royal with a breeze by the pool, the wicker plate from a stripper’s place with the best damn hamburger you ever had, sure, some of these are foreign to you but are canon to me… you have your own, you know the feeling, so what’s your baubles, what are your memories that recall… those that are gone, with a smile, for a mile, that recall the best of things in this messed up world… ?
I have referred to this in the past as a feeling (mine in this case) of being a pilot in my own body, our body is more machine than we might suppose, even if we know, think about piloting a machine, all the things around that happen automatically, for this case, heart beating, lungs breathing, little red internal postman hemoglobin vehicles making numerous deliveries and pick ups, but then the conscious decision to push a button, lifting your arm, a totally different revelation, and sensations, the clusters of nerves sending intel back to your hq, you don’t tell them what to do they just send the information on through and your mind decides the course of action, or sometimes there is just immediate reaction, thusly a marriage of the two, a binary system, which leads me to think, if we do move on from this plane of existence, where would we go? and why is there scant evidence of this journey? I suppose that is why I am pondering our evolution from this dimension is to escape to our true selves, apart from the machine, just the energy of our creation, the end all be all of the human equation, for the universe saw fit to create us (me, you), of all the concoctions that could have been and all the possibilities in the multi/multi billions (incalculable really), but in that transference to another realm our learning would start again from that od a newborn for the familiar shawl of the physics of this world would be ripped from us and we would once again be cast naked into a void, how long would it take to attain speech and such things again? and the term “long” might not matter if we are then existing outside of the bounds of time, in fact time might be something we can look at like a book, whimsically picking a story on which to partake, out of order, or backwards, would it matter from a different dimensional perspective? and perhaps this is why ones can not communicate with those who moved on, the world we are in might not be capable at all or compatible or both, perhaps the next dimension this one we are in will be like a TV where we can flip channels and watch all of history from the dawn of time to end if we are not bound by such constraints as we only know here and now, but is there comfort in that? is that existence, will we know and interact, or be part of the undercurrent consciousness of the universe itself? could our existence now be the same, one link in the chain, as memory would be a different mechanism when the rules of the game are changed so drastically, with so many possibilities who is to say? but I rather like the idea…
the four days- the cold barren the stark bare the slumber huddle survival; closed eyes; the gentle warming on western horizon land unlocked under toe slow awakening dawning eyes adjusting to the light stretching out up towards the sky blooming; hands palms wide to warming glory migration towards the water, the ocean holding on until the cooling and leaves fallen, loops on turn we then return to our station.
a scrap I wrote a while ago, I find them on various thumb drives, and I am surprised but what In find but then remember the vibe so… this is mine, all thoughts are welcome, I am a curious to find out the minds of others, it does not consume me, but it does have a sense of interest to see how I swim among my peers stuck in my same years of time…
the prison of routine, some might say the harshest confinement is the one constructed by yourself for yourself, well, this has some truth to it but the main difference in the mortar and brick is choice, when someone other locks the door and walks away with the key you are left at their mercy, for at least with your own device there is hope and light, a fight, a chance, a choice, so you should make steps forward this, however… lurking… fear is out there, out there beyond the walls, defanged, defamed, barely noticeable sliding around the edges of inevitable periphery, never fully vanquished but certainly downgraded from the moment to moment memory residing in these temples, but as most coins there is certainly two sides, a sly-silent partner, an ally, a comfort. for they work in concert you see, to relieve you of the daring of the new, with the quiet contentment of the known sold-old, so you tell yourself with conviction “What’s so bad about this, really?”, pushing down, suppressing or ignoring, that truth, the truth, what you know as the truth, what you have walled up yourself against all (or most) vulnerability, out of sight, out of mind, contentment blinds, that familiar, blanket of the finest kind, a warm snuggly atmosphere wrapped around surround, a cocoon- not of enchantment or rebirth or transformation even, but that to preserve a line of time, trying to stop the march that only goes on, a set, a play where the stage remains the same with some of the props changing, floating in and out of creation, but the base floor remains the same, so to close your eyes there is no serpent there to strike, only clean-dreams, safe dreams, the only rain- not the biting kind, the kind of quench of a summer drench to leech-instant the heat off your skin and in an instant spark steam on the heated grounds, summer scenes with not a rumor of winter, which must, of course, always come, but in this place, this palace of reinforced concrete is the con, your own prison of routine, worse than the singing of the sirens on the open seas, for at least you have heard their tale or read it so, from others lost, upon those sharpened rocks, but when upon – you crash out on to your very own, where stones and sticks to not break, but are lock and key, a willing iron mask for you to keep (in your own keep). so that is the prison, of my routine, and even scribing, scribbling, the realization of this, the seduction of self is deadly-slow bliss.
notes… this is one of those pieces bouncing around my head for days, well… the title was and the rest was like a train that followed on the tracks as I laid them, all in one flow, all of ten minutes maybe, takes longer to post and look pretty than it does to write… but I like adding the videos and such, that’s more for me than anyone else, if other people (you) dig it, thanks, that’s cool, this is more of a gallery though to hang up my art and let people walk through… except the cool thing is this is a better suggestion box than most museums have…
within the salt’on sea the sky is slates of ice cracks ‘cross of bended light the sun’s but a dream far night for the warmth is the warp of gravity deep inside the core of that, the salt’on sea
in a frozen landscape, or a floating sea of ice, is there land, is there hope, is there life, the physics still exists in the gymnasts in such realms so let it be… imagination…
(as always your thoughts and comments are welcome and appreciated, even if you think I suck, that’s cool too, I do this as a posting of art, nothing more, I do not expect everyone to get it, love it, or even care… just putting a little piece of the me out there into the ether, and hey, maybe you dig the tunes.. I have a lot of thoughts about that… and I also write media reviews, so check them out, I am funnier than you think… well, at least I tell myself that.)
wrought iron ancient tower in look sold and bought at a garden center in years I might have forgot some winters to fill you up going bare barren for an entire season no good reason, just the passing forgetting to refill the silo forgetting t’was even there, at times the nature of gravity and consumption in the wind, swaying
a common winter night not an occasion to stop- so filled to the top and spilt over not a delicate affair no, certainly not like an old man in the park shuffling hands in a paper bag, for company more organized perhaps but much the same rouse much the same draw
and I can not control those who come who find this rest stop and sometimes a flurry a gang of rooks, a jail break frenzy romp rather than the gentle sweep and peck the subtle moves of anxiety the back and forth with caution of those who might be prey or at least garnish so little ones bounce from limb to perch or a big blue jay swoops in also on the lurch
sometimes I wish- to script upon the seed with the breed I wish to attract oh, silly me haven’t we all done this very same act? (in our own reality)
based on the real, just my bird feeder swinging on the tree outside my bedroom window and the implications there… life is a strange and wonderful thing. so…. what do you think ?
and for any noobs: (I promise to be gentle) I write in flash form, maybe my work is not perfect but it is a flash photo of what comes out of my mind and pen (ok, keyboard mostly)… so, just so you know how it works around here, this is all just me throwing my breath out there, so if you read all this, or any of this, thanks for your cherished time, I appreciate it.
Shades of My Garden 