Posts Tagged ‘art’


It occurred in the middle of a long satisfied slurp
A moaning Lisa’s smile, bent to form a hole
where pan friend noddles dance like charmed snakes.
Enigmatic – underminingly coy – enough to know
that these aren’t fakes and that the reduced sodium
soy isn’t magnetic – but staining. Pollock in motion
peeling back shrink wrap while adolescents across the ocean
come of age under harsh florescence. Eyes straining
but pragmatic, try to digest where it all goes.

Nobody asks Marcel. But he knows.

On the subject, the Sublime is the awe of
being confronted with the mundanely normal
becoming grotesquely exaggerated. She bends
like Dali’s mustache for the countless thumbs
of the unknown connected. And as time
extends its red march, the maw slows,
and it occurs at the end of a long satisfied burp.

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Camelots and Chameleons

Hiding is
not the same as not wanting to be seen.
When close
to the hunt
the dilated pupil sees over exposed
photographs whizzing
with unnatural movement.
Long fingers of paint
run like spirits
around the crying cusp
of a wine glass.
Changing colors, far from cowardice,
is the Italics of nature.
An accent, not removal, from the space.
Your eyes treat me like invisibility
rather than transparency
as they read the surrounding throng
of pulsing flesh of the city.
But do not confuse that for absence –
Confuse me for stained glass
so that you will never know
that everything you know
is me colored.

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Outlasting Life

Make-up was her second face
for years. She lightly applied
blush for rosy cheeks. Perhaps
embarrassment or coyness.
A spent life being overturned
scrounging for seconds like change.
Another foundation, another skin tone
supplement to confer humanity.
His dead body survives for another night’s
celebration because of her art.
She kisses his cold lips and counts the remaining
seconds until work is over.

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He adds
layer upon layer
binding white paste
stretched over newspaper
headlines on health care blurring
with education reform on her stomach
on her face, that timeless and endless ocean.

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Her fingers feel her cheek,
dry like plaster.
Not enough to make a thumb print.
She pushes anyway.
Like a wall. It will be a fresco
before breakfast.
Worn after lunch.
Smudged on the clothes of another,
after dinner.
With any luck, mine.

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Master of Shadows

You draw closer
with each stroke
a lead sky,
a dark fold
of oily shades
and charcoal
figures, the residue
of myth and legend
clinging to your
10 soft brushes
and soon
a smudge on your

It’s like building
a house around
emptiness. The white
marks within
each shadowed edge
is a human face,
a child’s bald head,
or a ship adrift
in sea of black.

Your tiny figure
casts its own
shadow on an empty
sketch pad. You hold your
pencil like David
holding the strands
of Caravaggio’s hair.
The weight of
his own darkness
opening his jaw.

And I, a poor player,
left to watch
your finished
works. Each one
as complete,
and authentic,
as my own hand,
my own eye,
my own shadow.

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We made something there,
something that wasn’t there before
like a now faded world war
tattoo. We agreed that it was for love.
All of it for love. Without speaking of
muses, it was implied that without them
such creations were useless.
Each of us with a Helen of Troy,
our own Van Gogh ear lobes,
our own Donner Pass to cross.
Things in an ocean,
in a mountain,
a woman’s eye,
a bloody envelope.
We saw them in Antwerp
under panzer fire
by the docks that drew
Germans and prostitutes
to the majestic blue folds.
Yet we hesitated too long
the tide is lost.
We are left to sit on a beach
alone with bottles of beer,
and a hunger too deep.

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Black and white cons. Tattered jeans. The t-shirt with a band’s name. A hoodie. A cloudless yet thundering sky above. A soulless yet sacred pavement below. Amidst an elegantly constructed rubble there is an art. Sharp angular buildings carve a new sky – one determined by arithmetical precision of point A to point B – a skyline where once there was an arc and a horizon. Eyes catch a self walking beside them in the mirrored side of a headless building.

The shifting doppelganger pulls his hoodie ever over his face. It hides a pumping pocket music box the artificial heart tucked neatly into secret space. Its droning muse redefines things around by altering moods and emotions. It at least distracts one’s self from grunting street folk, yelling children, angry men, and domestic assault. Hurried people bump the ghost in street clothes as they splash by in lingering puddles – the aftermath of a deluge worthy of Noah’s arc.

Pascal outlined how distraction only served to make us forget about death. The music pumped on. Death is not nearly as scary as purposeless living some would say. To fear death would be to fear what you do not know otherwise called a phobia. So distractions might as it turns offer salvation from the natural elements that otherwise bind us in a prison of flesh. Life, after all its pretensions are stripped, would be an error without music.

A hand reached out to grab a hold of its corresponding doppelganger only to find smooth glass. Its firm skin coldly resisted touch. How sound could easily cut the infinitely regress into fragments. Destruction, it turns out, is linked to creativity. Destruction’s angel of justice, Entropy, only exists as an accident of presupposed organization. An organization that means nothing without an organizer. The difference between life and death, science teaches, is a few misplaced neurons, a couple of atoms, and timing. What brought life to that unrelated mess of parts is still unknown – but it wasn’t music.

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She had been in a rush all day
but she paused for a second
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.
There were no flowers to smell in the city.

No friend she ever had would recall
this small act of humanism, this epiphany
that would slow the fall for just one second
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.

After all, there where no flowers to smell in the city
Nothing to do, if you paused for just one second
So Naturally there was nothing to pity in the fact
that something was about to fall.

50 stories up, a painter too felt the epiphany
so he paused for just one second
Letting his feet forget the many hardship they’ve endured.
His friends couldn’t recall him ever acting so odd.

50 stories below, the cool, smooth, gray, of the sidewalk
Looked as if a blank paper with yellow lines.
It enjoyed the idle talk of business pedestrians about how
There were no flowers to smell in the city.

50 different stories, filled with people
none of whom could recall
it ever raining red paint before.
Something must have gone wrong.

The black and white newspapers the next day
capture only a monochrome woman lying face down
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.
Why she had left work, her secretary couldn’t recall.

There were no flowers to smell in the city,
Nothing but leaves and cold air.
The weight of 50 stories having painted her tale
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.

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