Welcome to the Farm

October 9, 2018 § 2 Comments

Welcome to the Farm

It’s hard to argue with them…
because they never listen.
To them you are
undecorated, unadorned
the composition of yourself is like a static fabric
exhausting only in the mind and apprehensions of other people.
You are rendered down
like animal fat and poured
into something else;
paint or glue
until there is nothing left of what was originally you.
People tell you: You are collaborating, You are now a part of a collective and community. But how is this so when your only contribution was as a part of the experiment, but not part of the process?
You were processed
— and here we come back to meat.
Some of us are slaughter.
Think of the pigs, drunk wearing human clothing, and eating the meat of their fellow animals.
Do you remember them? The pigs? The other animals? Staring through the twilit windows? Their animal jaws flung open in awe, and bewildered in shock- as if they, as if we, didn’t know what was going on all along.

We, you, I, he, she…they… no you…the collective us and them… we ignored too much.

We all clap hands
and we all fall down.

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What Are We Doing Here

April 16, 2016 § Leave a comment

Even in the light of day the stars are shining down on us.

The sun cascades behind the horizon as if the earth is as
flat as the celestial mysteries hidden far beyond our clouds.

No one knows the mountain, shown in the half moon light that crosses
over the river, one passing the other like a mirror reflecting a casual glance; no one knows that mountain.

A dog barks.
I sight a deer in wild bamboo—

What is it doing here?

Patti Smith’s Woolgathering

November 6, 2015 § Leave a comment

I just finished reading Woolgathering by Patti Smith. A tiny little pocket book more poetry than prose, and all truth. It’s a beautiful journey through bits of her childhood. She gently guides us into her childhood mind, and into her childhood world, and it is a lovely journey that I highly recommend.

I always imagined I would write a book, if only a small one, that would carry one away, into a realm that could not be measured nor even remembered.

I imagined a lot of things. That I would shine. That I’d be good. I’d dwell bareheaded on a summit turning a wheel that would turn the earth and undetected, amongst the clouds, I would have some influence; be of some avail.

-Patti Smith, Woolgathering

Don’t you want to write a little book? Don’t you want to be good? Go out and be amongst the clouds and help turn our precious earth. Go Shine.

Enjoy some words of advice from Patti.

Hlavní Nádraží Station, Prague 1:00 a.m.

November 2, 2014 § Leave a comment

I leave you and walk toward
the last exit. I see the
marble tables like
backgammon pieces,
but no one is playing.
I jump empty chairs except
for where two junkies
sleep with their
heavy heads rested in their
folded arms, using their
elbows for pillows
and drool catchers.
A junky
lifts his head mumbles to me.
His mouth barely opened,
a soft grey hue, like
crusted milk around his lips.
He’s falling from his seat.
I stumble backward to
exit doors, and escape.
On to the open street.

The Last Painting

November 1, 2014 § Leave a comment

This is still an early draft of a poem I’m working on. I can’t seem to grasp what I’m trying to capture or how to say what I want. The poem at this point is visually interesting and uses many references to actual paintings, but there is a disconnect in this version. Who is talking and who are they talking to and why? These are the questions I still have around this poem. Why is it so important to write it, why not throw it out and move onto something else? Another question.

Fixed like a Japanese etching; He sat alone in his blue
painted room. In the smallest corner, a yellow bed frame.

one pale chair turned out waiting for a guest- any guest
perhaps another painter?
He wrote letters: “Dear brother, dear sister
they do not see what I see.
They do not see what I am showing them.”

In the wheat field crows
gathered around the lonely scarecrow.
Dutch, with an orange beard
a palette in one hand, a brush in the other
supplicating in a blue smock.

He painted thick strokes of yellow wheat.

Ocean blue sky, and a road
long, bending, and coming to an end.
Where are they going?
They had sat on his easel and cawed at his brushstroke.
They scatter like dark clouds spreading news.
The gunshot? Did he paint the expectation of sound?

They flew.
They are
still flying,
all of them,
from painting
to painting-

Over his yellow fields of golden sunflowers;

swirling starry nights;
past the harvest women
and their round full bodies bent

over rows of crimson and purple grapes.
Perched atop his maddened trees
soared over lavender lilies, and
 picked through tactile gardens.

Once the shot was fired they 
drank in his night cafes.
Poured one out for the fallen artist.
Triste! Triste! Caw! Caw!
A TOAST to an artist! CAW!

The crows the murderous ravens.

They love him now.
They covet him, now,
tour his history, now,
his home, his life, his pain.
They understand him now.
In life they never once 
reached
to touch his dark wounded face.

He must have,
before that moment,
silently swayed 
peacefully as golden wheat. His quartered ear
covered by orange hair the color of
a monk’s robe. Smoke at his heart, vermillion at his feet.

The Performance Artist

August 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

The Performance Artist

Simple tempered she stepped 
from the limelight
her delicate fingers
dipped in crisp chocolate.

They cracked
like her fingers were cold vanilla ice cream.

Everyone Cried.

Dreaming of Patti Smith

March 4, 2011 § Leave a comment

Where would we be without Patti? After reading her book Just Kids I felt inspired to know everything Patti. The life that she chose to live is the life that I imagine, the artistic life. It was a relief to read that she had to work at “jobs” to support herself before being able to survive solely as an artists. I often look to my life and I think of the hours and days given to other people for employment. I feed their dreams and their ambitions. It is especially hard when you are only doing a job for money and you have no connection to the work you are doing, you become acutely aware that you are helping to pay for your boss’s house, your boss’s vacation, your boss’s adventures, while you still rent, you never vacation, and all your dreams are in bits of paper on your floor in your rented room. I envision that these great poets had starved themselves for the sake of their art, and some of them did, and some of them had patrons, and some of them were revered before they ever needed to find a “real job”. Sometimes I need to hear that someone had to do what I have to do in order to just make it day-to-day, work just enough to eat and have shelter but the rest of the time is for your art. As I get older, I find it more challenging, especially as I watch my friend’s paths turn to building a family, buying homes and choosing secure careers (as secure as we can find right now that is). I think to myself that I am a failure in a job that has no personal growth, no pay increase, and no tie to what I find creative it is retail, it’s not even a bookstore. Thank god for Patti though, thank god she wrote her memoir, it reminds me that life is a path and a series of events and where you are right now is not where you will always be. I can still find my way.

I’m looking forward to seeing this film.

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