Saturday, June 19, 2010
Is it fair to admit a truth
that would break a promise?
A bond set on course
but not yet moored.
Has this truth come too late
or just in time?
Is it unjust to the presence of the past
or to the present oversea investments?
Which is greater?
Which has priority in the continuum in time?
Can the fact wait
Is it misunderstood?
Is it worth saving myself from its crushing weight,
A life of regret and unrequiting longing,
If it perhaps becomes theirs with a burden multiplied of unknowable density,
Altogether different structures of lattice crystal.
And in the light I carry for such a one
would that lattice break?
In destroying one furture would another be gained
Or would both be forever tainted?
The final question must be
Of this light’s strength and length and origins.
If it is great and frequent and pure,
It must be shown,
For either to torch or to pyre,
Otherwise the light will consume itself
And its lighter in combustion that leaves embers burning;
Faded and isolated in space and time
To taint all other flames.
The only other possibility is that it would dwindle to a whisper
Of smoke giving way to darkness
That lacks resources and energy to strike
Anew a future.
My love is dead, refused, missed, or misplaced.
But love endures
Whether its around or in my hands
Or in the hands of others.
What would I really have to offer
But a soul tossed about by pressure
And in the tortuosity lose
The fact and the love
Left in years apart
And pieces of brokenness
For her and her present tense.
To dwindle the flame,
And twiddle another branch
An Age where we have no families
Far-off and distant relatives and movie stars galore;
Limitless urban sprawl and heights;
I make my own definition;
They told me to so I did it;
I wanted it so I took it;
I can do whatever I want in my life;
I only feel for utility;
I am separate and autonomous from all;
The present for whatever it costs without a thought to the past;
Never a question, yet always an answer,
Opinions abound in the troth.
If society teaches,
then we eat the peaches,
and then we're all in the same broth.
Monday, June 7, 2010
April 23rd, 2010
You see the scene.
The four, cornered lights with silks.
The white tape in square with form-bolstering cords;
The true yet transient perimeter, 40x40ft.
A wooden table,
Twin chairs to match
In center stage,
Square within square,
The remnant of a tree
Growing from green slate,
A reflection of grass.
at an end,
Participant placed to the compliment,
all to have between them
She is striking in posture and face.
A nose to rival stereotyped witches.
She offers what so many wish of celebrities;
A chance to sit with them,
Be near them,
And most outstanding,
To have their complete attention.
Most unusually and improbable of all,
You have their eyes through hers.
Will her attention falter?
In my time waiting
will she stand and leave before I do,
Before I have a chance?
What is she offering?
Will she change from these encounters?
Will she change me?
Will my stare change her?
Will the years of focused attention
on the work of my hands change me?
Why am I here?
Why do I want to sit with her?
She prepares herself.
Shoulders down head moved slightly
To settle the kink to the lower right.
Eyes closed to revive moisture,
Light re-envigored by darkness of closed lid,
A new person approaches,
The artist takes her time
She is not a microwave.
This is not fast food.
This is real.
This is personal,
She tells any who wants a burger and fries
To look elsewhere
in her slowly returning posture.
In the awakening
She is a phoenix;
Anew like the first glance,
—A virginity Madonna can’t touch.
Vitality lasting person after person,
Day after day,
Two months to follow the first.
You can’t just be a spectator.
You want to participate,
Want to experience,
Want to know,
With a touch of being seen,
One person wants two minuets.
One as long as he can stand it.
One as long as he can sit.
Another but a breath.
One man staid an hour and a half,
And continues to sit and stare
From across the room at the unfolding,
He either gained something here
Where he is left incomplete
A little more
From watching her back, face, and hands.
So is this a test for us or for her?
Hands puffed from blood.
Eyes also shot bloody.
Face is grease and sweat from the four, 1K lights.
She stands the risk of malnourishment,
Blood clots in her legs from prolonged sitting.
A challenge of patience,
Do I want to wait half an hour,
Will I forgo the artist’s artwork for the artist herself?
What is an artist without her art?
She makes us a piece of her own art
By our own willingness,
Art arising mentally to those involved,
Physically and emotionally on human palletes
The brushs of her eyelashes paint
With the color of her eyes
And the texture of her face’s age
By the hold of her body’s sacrifices
To the strokes of the compliment
And to the inspiration of the interaction.