Posts Tagged ‘creativity’

follow the words

Thursday, December 30th, 2010

Can you follow the words, even though they lack familiar meaning or intent?

Can you let the disconnected images bounce off your mind and make something new?

Can you get beyond the irritation this exercise may bring and get beyond the frustration and loss of focus to just let the words fall like gentle rain on your mind’s inner room?

Read it again and just let it glide until you picture different things that will engender some meaning in their random connections to your inner self.

Listen as the words become pictures and change their meanings and tumble and echo and spark with contrast and confusion into paths of light and sound.

Follow the words and enjoy the bouquet that forms into glyphs and clouds
as you chant and sing without realizing or intended thought.

Can you follow the words, follow the words and swallow the words
and allow the words and tallow the words and mellow the words and — the words… the words, not just words.

blue sky rambling

Thursday, December 30th, 2010

So, what about that big blue sky and those withering palms
and how about those wet days and sultry nights aloft

What gives with the shuffling crowds at the Sunday market
and all those guys in shorts on such a cold day in December.

Have you seen the long noses on those fake-oldde street lights
and all those signs on peoples’ lawns selling their bank’s assets

And all those items that have reached their pull dates intact
with the samples and bargain prices when you do the checking yourself?

Its a cold day in the desert and all those crazy ideas are floating around
catching in the skimmer and rolling off the roof into the yard-waste can

While everyone else is shivering and huddling or fighting and killing
and gathering for the armageddon or the put-off elections or some party

To which no one is invited but all must attend in their finest raiments
of blood and fiber, swelling the ranks of the downtrodden and faint

While the rest of us sing on in solitary bliss with the dishwasher growling
as we pass on the rest of yesterday’s lunch to some who really needs it.

So, what about that blue sky — is it lifting you up and filling your sails
or taking you down to the depths of entropy without any help?

This discordant nonsense is all we’ve got — more mundane anarchy:
Its up to us to make it into a song and dance to it lightly, right or wrong.

You may not see this a verse but, who really gives a damn so let it be –
anything and nothing but a scrambled bunch of words to feel and see.

Yeh, what about that big blue sky and those withering palms
can you make it a party — or only something else to make it through.

breaking out

Tuesday, September 28th, 2010

I’m not a drunk nor am I a drifter

I’m not a nasty old fuck nor a saint

I’m not poor or a man of considerable means

I’m not well read nor am I stupid

I’m not suffering from depression

I’m not angry at the world

I’m not mad, sad or particularly glad

I am too serious, on the outside at least

I am pretty loose, on the inside anyway

I am feeling a little stiff when trying to express

what lies wiggling in ferment inside my head

.

I think I’m living in a shell

one that looks good on the outside anyway

one that is a veneer of rule following

one that is acceptable to those around it

one that hides the real me inside it

one that only shows little bumps when pushed from inside

one that keeps the fire and sharp barbs in

one that I am constantly trying to break through

one that has taken on a life of its own

one that I compromise with to maintain balance

one that I plan to shatter before it smothers me entirely.

.

Inside I hate rules and directions given

can’t stand proven methods or routine approaches

I prefer the challenge of the unknown

to tackle on my own

without any directions

or rules to follow

nothing to do but lead myself

into whatever mess

and see where it leads

without any care for its end

or where it takes me.

.

It took me years to build my shell

years of training and practice

at looking like I fit in

at learning how to say

… not what I really mean

… but what will sell

at sounding like I’m educated

… by something other than my own experience

at coming off as credentialed

… by institutions I abhor

at appearing to be a part of a society

at smelling clean

at doing the right things at the right times

at not farting aloud

at not talking to myself

at being acceptable.

.

How can I be a poet or writer without being a drunk?

How can I capture your imagination without some pranks?

How can I sound credible without a little rancor?

How can I stop hiding my fire and sharply pointed sticks?

How can I break through my shell?

How can I even tell

when I have?

.

I’ve been a drunk at times

I’ve pulled some pretty awful pranks

I’ve spewed forth terse invectives

I’ve poked and prodded the mighty without shame

I’ve broken through my shell on occasion

I just don’t settle into continuing patterns

… by choice

I’ve been and done many things

and I’m seeing so many more to be and do.

.

So I feel like a chick

pecking at its shell

that already has some pretty big holes in it

hoping to chip my way through

so I can no longer hide

my real self inside.

I’m more than ready to ride

just got to let it slide.

babbling on babylon – another kvetch

Friday, January 8th, 2010

Sometimes I feel like a gun without bullets, a cake decorator without icing
or, a broom without any dirt to sweep — a mason without a wall to build
piling up bricks and tools for that next big project that is nowhere in sight.

So, without an externally funded job, I start piling the bricks
into whatever seems to feel right at this moment, though right
isn’t obvious to my wandering thoughts. Shut up and go do something real.

But this is real isn’t it? Am I finally going crazy? Some would say
that happened a long while ago but, really — all artists and writers are crazy, right?

Some say I’m not crazy enough — too regular a guy, and so do I but then,
why am I sitting here doing this when I could be seeking the next thrill
elsewhere in this room, on this computer or in this stomach that awaits breakfast.

And, I continue to babble on.

the scent of cents

Sunday, December 20th, 2009

What I really love about being an artist, a painter,
is the creating of things that no one has ever seen.

Creating environments in whose two-dimensional space
I loose myself in a world that is totally fresh and new —

colors and shapes that are filled with energy and movement
that propel my soul off its feet and into a weightless flight

through what becomes a multidimensional scape where
physical, spiritual, intellectual and emotional intertwine

to make me one with the dance of light and fire,
of sound and wind, of muscle and blood that is the ringing

of a bell, the refracting of a ray, the heat of a thrill,
the breath of life and the mystery of death revealed all at once.

Its the complexity of the simple and the simplicity of the complex,
the amazement in the mundane and the peace of chaos

that brings me back in spite of my more practical nature
to explore the idiocy of intent and the sanctity of the perverse.

Roll on silver diamond, bring me back the painted face
and out of the mustached harlot a return to the source.

Grind on as I move about you like a humming bird in hunger
doing everything that makes sense more than the scent of cents.

one-act play

Wednesday, November 4th, 2009

Could a poem be
a one-act play?

it seems to me
there is a way

to take a plot
and weave it through,

its all I’ve got
let’s make it do.

The curtain ascends
with a man that’s coughin’.

and abruptly ends
with him in his coffin.

The audience applauds
this writer’s grovel,

a one act play
from a two-word novel.

filling a vacuum

Monday, September 7th, 2009

Totally ethereal, that’s what I have decided to become
as an artist and poet, my work shall reside only in the ether
and expire when my accounts with service providers do

Left vulnerable to theft and loss at the slightest digital whim
they will be suspended in the virtual domain rather than print
or hanging on a wall or lying on a coffee table somewhere

I want to be creating things that have some meaning
beyond beautifying someone’s rooms or ego
or merely offering vacuous pleasure though that does sound alright

And maybe that’s really all there is, vacuous pleasure
or even vacuous pain for that matter as a contrasting background
of emptiness just waiting to be filled with my works

So get ready to suck them in and see what they do for you
let them slowly sink in to your consciousness since they are free
and find the energy there to inspire your own outpouring love.

what was it

Monday, July 20th, 2009

what rakish and daring exploit was I going to write about?
it seems to have totally slipped out of my mind this morning
as I settle in to my studio moving the four bicycles I have there
to accommodate my sitting to attack the keyboard which records
my inner wanderings and thoughts into its virtual library.

I try to fight off the distractions of others’ noises in pursuit
of their own agendas and mysteries on this fine and sunny
summer Monday morning just past the hour of nine.

This is the time I’ve determined is the best if one has to
travel about on errands — Most who start at nine are there
and those that started earlier are taking their first break
so the roads are quieter now after the rush while everyone
seems to have gotten out of my way just for me and a few
others who also have this figured out — aah, ain’t life great.

But I’ve still not recalled the event I wanted to chronicle
perhaps a diversion into something else is in order
it was something I know so well and can recall every detail
but at the moment its gone just beneath that surface film
that can more than cloud these memories in some shadows
cast by what I don’t know.

____________

So after a diversion I still can’t recall so will be on my way
to return later when that thought returns for real. so long for now.

_____________

It was around 1967 when I shared a painting studio
in the abandoned Collins building downtown
in Seattle’s skid road

I built a small car out of cardboard boxes
to look like a child’s drawing of a car — boxy

it was covered with large pieces of newsprint
I’d gotten from my uncle who worked at the Times

and painted bright pink with black lines
and in the driver’s side window

was pasted a print of Ruben’s Child
and of course there were wheels and bumpers and lights

I took it down onto the street below
and set it into a parking space and paid the meter

We watched from our fourth floor window
as cars stopped to park then seeing it — drove on

This must be street theater we thought
so ventured out into other neighborhoods

In the U-District we again parked the bright little boxy car
and sat in a restaurant across the street to watch

It was beautiful to observe this child-styled artwork
in its contrast with the mundane surroundings

and to witness others’ amusement and wonder
at what and why this anomaly was

In a moment when our attention was diverted
by our conversation or coffee

we suddenly noticed the car had been removed
and was headed up the street in a meter maid’s cart

By the time we got out onto the street it was nowhere in sight
so, dejected we walked back to our car just up the block

As we passed by a small City storefront office we stopped
because there just inside on the floor

was our little pink child-styled car offering yet another contrast
that caused us to laugh and thrill at this circumstance

We entered immediately and inquired as to what it was doing there
since we had indeed paid our fare at the meter

and exclaimed that just because our car was so different
was no reason it should be impounded without notice

I wish this tale had a more exciting ending
like a day in court or perhaps some media coverage but alas

We were sent on our way without prosecution
since after all it was only art — hummph.

And this is the kind of thing that made Andy Warhol
and others famous while we trudge on in obscurity

Having fun and creating anomalies whenever and wherever
we can leaving no footprints and packing out our wastes.

some good, some not

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

some are good, others not so good
but they are what they are and nothing more
perhaps unless they are edited or refined
then they won’t really be what they are
but hopefully better, we’ll see won’t we

since this is a universal truth effecting
children, objects, ideas and words
that possess excellence in their freshness
that can be ruined by redirection and hint
yet be improved with work and love.

that doesn’t really say much so good its not.

my studio in june

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

No view but the walls around me
covered with my art and memorabilia
and work tables with tools and stuff
shrapnel from my life as a painter

The florescent tubes and software
folders anoint the drawing board with
lupes and tire gauges as the headphones
act as sentry on the taboret with a wrench

bicycles and oil-filled heaters challenge
the heat gun holder for space against
the four-by-four supported table that serves
as photo shooting tableau with its green carpet

covering littered with slides from past lives
waiting to be reignited into fires of inspiration
as the well-aged oil paints await yet another
day in the sun of creativity as my mind races on

coming up with projects that make me crave waking
every morning to see what I will end up focusing on
as my juices flow back and forth between pictures
and words and the physical and spiritual merge

into creations that make me wonder both at their
majesty and whether or not anyone will even care
whether they exist or not while I intend and desire
them to make a real difference in someone’s lives.

I’ve got a lot to look at here and the inspirations seem
unending as time slips by like a rocket seeing few of these dreams
realized, yet somehow, they are all coming together
in a syncopated collage of time, space and spirit.