Dedicated to all the artists
I wandered tombs of tomes from whence
hidden beneath the sacred site
did unsolved riddles’ sweet pretense
encase the mighty dynamite.
Escher could draw the puzzling
of steps and fish and belvedere
without the greasy sentiment
of painters with an obvious flare.
(He saw deeply inside the square
and took you there,
then took you THERE).
Schiele’s heart doth the darkness seek
for paradigms inside the face
mysterious and murkily
the beauty of the future’s taste.
His is the grace of master’s hand
delights in pigments of the blood.
He touched the wings of sacred sand
enfolded in the ancient shroud.
At tender age of twenty-four
I stood at the crossroads obscure.
The rightly path in front of me
lay thickets bare and thornily.
I could not muster courage strong
for that path so I chose the wrong.
I took the dead-end path instead
and danced and danced on feet that bled
until at last I came around.
Inside myself a new path found.
Through letting go in present tense
uncoded psychic dissonance.
This time I heeded inner call
walking without a fear to fall.
Darkness no longer terrifies
when clarity and truth belies.
Alice and Dorothy
go on a journey
where nothing is good
though that it should.
they fall out of bed.
They want to go home.
They want to wake up.
They drink from the cup
that fucks they shit up.
They deal with dimensions
of shape and of size
not too easily defied.
confused with desperation,
what they need is meditation.
At last they say
to those who hear:
surrender all to your home inside
that palace of wondrous fanta-sci-fy.
There is nothing else.
No here nor there
that once imagined
All due praise
to the Geese of Fenway
reminds me to be human
even as I sidestep the shit
and whose power
can bring traffic to a halt on Boylston
in the early afternoon light
of opening day.
Nowadays, no one stops to hear a bird sing.
Instead, we google it and think we know.
These shortened attention spans are trying to
(pause, pause, pause, pause, pause)
drive me crazy.