Posts Tagged ‘words’

res ipsa loquitor

Saturday, May 7th, 2011

in Latin means literally ‘the matter speaks for itself’

in Law, the principle that the occurrence of an accident
implies negligence

as an artist I know that accidents require negligence and
that there would be very little art without it

and that matter speaks for itself, literally.

one ton run

Wednesday, January 12th, 2011

Rain again stains the main plain pane
and the sun is fun when you’ve won a ton

But to rut your gut with a slut and a mutt
your butt must be cut with a nut in your hut.

Its crackers for hackers you slackers
when for smackers and stackers you track

And wonder and blunder with hair all asunder
to fund her down under with someone who gunned her.

So pick up a stick and lick on a tick
for thick as its trick is its click on your wick

When the rain is a train with a mighty refrain
some drain must remain inside of your brain.

The son with a gun’s not the one on the run
for the sun on your bun is just for my fun.

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.

ramblingIntent

Thursday, August 26th, 2010

Its a misty late summer afternoon in Seattle,
some Howard Roberts style electric guitar jazz is riffing on the radio.

A mug of fake coffee with Hazelnut syrup is steaming away on the taberet
while the darkness of my barely lit studio wraps around me.

I’m wondering how I might write in the same way that I paint —
moving colors around on a new canvas seems easier than moving words around
on a new page.

A painting starts with a few colors chosen and spread around on a canvas with a brush or palette knife, then maybe a rag to smear light washes, starting to see something emerge is such a thrill.

Writing seems so clunky, words must be typed or handwritten in a pretty much linear form so as to be readable and have some meaning — or do they?

If I were to put down a random selection of words I would then have to either cut them apart and rearrange them physically or erase them and re-write or, cut and paste to get a new creation. Is it worth it?

I hate editing as much as I hate doing pre-ordained imagery in paint, preferring abstract expression to classical illustration.

I want to create written works that have the same ethereal yet engaging quality that my paintings have– to transport viewers/readers to a place where they take ownership of the words as they spark new images, ideas and words of their own in their minds and hearts.

So, let’s try something out here — throw down some words and move them around. Here goes:

saliva mountain mounting glancing abundance around throwing riffs drums cymbals driving lemons gout midday ringing signals whistling macaw juniper jungle rhythm jingling q-tips phoenix eraser needle-nosed broom sharpen pen boom heater wheel fundamental

OK, now let’s see what happens in various rearrangements, adding some connecting words and punctuation:

Whistling mountains foretell the ringing of the macaw
and the jungle rhythms throwing riffs into the mounting
midday abundance of lemons and needle-nosed drums
as you sharpen your pen over the glancing heater at your side
while the phoenix-like boom erases the q-tip’s subtle strokes
from the fundamental wheel angles that signal the beginning
of the driving cymbals in the juniper broom that sweeps
the fundamental glancing aside and leaves you inspired.

…or maybe taken in their original order:

A saliva mountain is mounting, glancing in its abundance
around the throwing riffs of drums and cymbals
driving lemons of gout in the midday ringing — signals
like a whistling macaw in a juniper jungle with its rhythm
jingling like a q-tip in Phoenix, an eraser of a needle-nosed broom —
so sharpen your pen, your boom heater wheel is fundamental.

… there are some possibilities there — maybe.

Or, what if I just take them as a starting point for a stream of consciousness ramble:

Thoughts of fresh lemons hanging in the midday sun
echo in my mind as the gloom of autumn settles in
to the rhythm of ringing cymbals and mounting drums

Rising like the Phoenix from the gout of the jungle
to the heater from which the macaw and juniper merge
into a whistling wheel of throwing song and saliva

Driving the broom wheel into its fundamental q-tip
as the needle-nosed eraser pulls on the strings
and the pen moves out into the night with a transcendent riff.

Nonsense making sense, that’s what its all about. Its the only way to inspire some original thought, some intrinsically unique experiences that can’t happen with words that have too much meaning as they are, common phrases. Telling a story is one thing, inspiring some original thought is yet another. I guess I’m going for the latter in a more direct way, trying to circumvent the redundancy of familiar situations and their influence on thought patterns.

Its a continuation of my initial forays into what I called “thought generation by exposure to non-objective media” back in the late 60’s in New York and later in Park Forest at Governors State University. Guess I haven’t changed much basically. I was inspired by Dada — Marcel Duchamp, Max Ernst, Man Ray, et al while a student and felt that my entire career as a graphic designer was a work of conceptual art or, merely a way to make some money masquerading as a design consultant.

So, as I transition into adding writing to my painting I want to bring that same approach to bear, hence these stabs.

I hate editing, re-writing so, you’ll just have to bear with my
unvarnished uttering and find what gems you can. Why?

The more I leave to you, the more of personal value you’ll find
as you let these words settle in to the fertile soil of your mind.

________________________________________________

meeting your muse

Horizontal folds of blue magic surround the twirling air currents that swirl around
the outer edges of this room and leave a soft pulsing light as if a cloud of energy had descended
from out of nowhere, leaving a scent of incense and fresh air mixed with the smell after
a rainstorm on the fresh grass of a summer field, now drenched in a warm orange glow.

Spikes of bright green wave in this gentle breeze, emanating the essence of liveliness
whispering of new beginnings and an unusual ability to sense the new in the familiar
as ever lightening clouds glide against the deep blue sky leaving nothing but nothing
in its path but the feeling that something new is being born in this most comport-able place.

The room and it’s contents begin to move about in their own independent ways, some in,
some out and others around as things now begin to take on the aura of another place entirely
and the energy is palpable as your very being seems to be experiencing the same dis-integration, in a nice way, floating pieces of your thoughts and feelings intertwine.

Contrasting thoughts and ideas meet in juxtaposition and affinity at once becoming friendly
as the obvious and the hidden, the sublime and the ridiculous dance in cozy confluence
and new insights begin to bubble up from within your own colored space to join in this
merry pirouette of consciousness and sensory pulsing you feel, this dizzying ambiance.

Listen then as the sound of the nostalgic clarinet hums with the piano and the flowers on it
and the unicorn and the gas station down the street flirt with the passing days of swimming light
into the forgone bidding of the old woman who wears the fresh rose in her hair, singing
old show tunes and holding forth with a chorus of air conditioners in the most beautiful concerto.

The sharpening stone makes its presence known to the crayon of red but not so as to blind
the frog in the old Sprite drinking the elixir from a paper cup and a plastic straw — hold on.
Fantastic blankets of pink and pale blue flit past in little pieces with furry bumps and satin edges
rubbing your cheek, touching only the lightest fuzz as the thumping trumpet explodes gently.

Fat orbs glistening with juice and fresh pulp of fruity tendrils, leaking an aroma of cinnamon
soft-edged in their pubescence and ripe in their maturity approaching a fermented sound
like a muted saxophone in a smoky club or darkened alleyway as cats howl and sirens hum
and the smells of musk softly fill your nostrils and turn into your own array of colored light.

Slowly a chant begins deep inside and you can hear it welling up just behind your lips
as your breathing falls into a deep, slow and soft rhythm — hnn — hmm — hnn — hmm
and now all is bathed in pastel light as the sounds of your primordial tissue reverberate
slowly taking you beyond consciousness into the light where you rest awhile, and Return…

mind find grind

Sunday, December 13th, 2009

I’m not asking for much
just to be in touch
with the voice inside
who lately’s chosen to hide.

I watch others clever inventions
and artfully gravelly voices
make my soul seek its intentions
while they seem to have real choices.

Where are those words that once seemed to float
in torrents that gave me such pleasure
the ones that could make the word “goat”
just right to fit with my newfound leisure.

Do I really have to take things in my own hands
and force it if you will
or does it simply come from one of those glands
that feed the longing skill.

Its forced and I know it, it just doesn’t feel right
it hasn’t that ring all poignant and warm
if it doesn’t just flow on its own, out of sight
and then, reeling back with such wonderful form.

Where are you oh welcome stranger whose left me stranded
on the distant shores of wanting and vacuous flight
feeling not just wordless but wain and wrong handed
Come back and please, just help me write

Flowing words and catchy phrases
that lift the soul and tickle the inner orchestra
with thoughts and sights that spur praises
at the insanity of meaning and acoustic aphasia.

Does it matter what’s said and what we read?
Of course you fool, and you’d best take heed
To force the muse you will certainly strangle
whatever little thoughts it started to wrangle

And leave this sitting all dazed and confused
when all you wanted was to re-meet the muse.
There’s something inside but it just needs to bubble
in its own time to yield without all this trouble

as it cries for silence to surround its shell
or at least the end of such irrelevant chatter and din
but from which must arise at last and as well
the pieces of trash that make it ring deep within.

Om mani padme hum
the mantra rings still in the temple of my mind.
It takes a fossil fueled ‘varoom’
and makes it into a beloved ‘bump and grind’

Out of the clatter comes a song
if only the rhythm you can find
and see that really, all along,
its all just part of the presence of mind.

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.

man with a gut

Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009

I’m not poetic lately
don’t really know why

Maybe its just life spreading out
in a thin layer in time and place

or is it the drone of daily activities
stretched out by inadequate systems

and wonderful distractions like walking
or bicycling or just hanging out

Nothing to write home about as its said
but who’s writing home anyway?

All I can see is these words
are making a shape

like a headless
man with a gut

just standing
here on this

page for
who knows what.

whatever it takes

Sunday, September 13th, 2009

Whatever it takes
to avoid the fakes
and anything else
that tickles the pulse
to make the day
one where you say

I love that and
I’ll give you a hand
even if it rhymes
at least fifty times
and drives you mad
like you’ve been had

by another vain rap
of some driveling sap
who has nothing more
than to mop the floor
with pummeled words
turned into some turds

just to fill a page
for another sage
who also has nothing
better a-going
and is lost in a fog
like an old baying dog.

So do what you must
to bake someone’s crust
but please – please
give me some ease
to just hear my own
monotonous tone drone.

out on a limb rick

Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009

There once was a man from Seattle
who stood on his head to do battle

He said with a roar
as he threw down the whore

If the pig drove a goat
I’d eat cattle.

I’m out on a limb
even though I seem dim

my head seems to be in a scatter

I can’t go give in
though I know I can’t win

and nothing else even seems to matter.

So I run to the hill
in search of a pill

and life goes on ever after.

why bother

Wednesday, July 29th, 2009

Its all been said before so why bother saying or writing it again
The greatest pictures have been already painted so why make more

Well, the reason is that that is really all there is — that is the main reason

for living

We are all headed in the same direction generally
which is not really a direction at all since there is only one spot in time and space’

here and now

We keep trying all sorts of things that only seem to keep us denying our divinity
since our deity is one with us it only seems natural

We are simply not accustomed to being subservient in our mastery
so we cling to our imagined and oscillating duality

here and there is everywhere and its only right here right now
or is that left here and left now, up here and down now, in here and out now?

contrast is oneness

and that is where the thrill feels the strongest and the pain most intense
for bliss is agony as pain is beauty as they and we are one.

So lets go out and fix the car, mow the lawn, feed the kids and get a haircut
while we explode and shrink in time and space honoring those before

who did the same thing in the same time and the same space

watch for the closing doors

as they open before you

knowing that you are the doors and their openings and closings

energy and matter inseparable

Now its time for lunch.