Patrick's Poem

Two inhalers,
one plastic plate
with Care Bears on it,
I return
24 negative images,
grins, kisses,
music,
crammed in a bubble mailer.
The little boy who could not breathe,
I return,
the little boy who fell.
You taught yourself to breathe
without me,
Eat, See, Hear.
Can you feel?
Bear it.
Notes unfold,
fly out
and descend.
I hope you walk,
stand tall.
Maybe dance?

I dare you to try flying.

I could not breathe
for you,
nor fly.
Bound. Tangled.
Now I breathe freely,
and I have flown
without you.
So your childhood returns.
It was never mine.
These ghosts go their way
on wings.
This is the last knot.
I allow each string to fall,
untied.
Relieved,
my image changes.

stream of thought: modernism and postmodernism in art

Postmodernism is a term, which gets 'bandied about' so much that it seems meaningless, if not at times highly controvercial to discuss. One thing i find fascinating in researching it (and all of its many fascets, the many opinions and discourses about it), is that it often seems, in a strange way, to relate much more INTENTIONALLY with humanity and the human condition. While modernist art realated to the viewer through aesthetics, postmodernism said/says "hey! look at this! look at these issues! what about women, and war, and technology...!" However, i feel that regardless of whether you are looking at a cavepainting, a Monet, or mulling over the intensity of a Chris Burton performance art piece, Art has the power to create waves and alter human consciousness.

mi amor

here

Scrubbing the floor,
sing,
hands and knees –
I should be here more often.

a ton

With ten fingers closed tightly,
six legs,
ten toes,
four hooves, and a ton
of loosely swinging
muscle, we sashay
across the arena.

terms

Juicy,
dripping lips,
fingertips covered with words and horsehair.
This is how I spend my seasons:
blood stains,
blond strands,
sleep,
more words,
another horse.
And turn a new term -
sleepless.
Can’t find the right words;
found the right horse.
Now I know more about an abstract concept -
love. She has shown me without words.

bent

Writing makes me high.
Always said
'no need for drugs –
got that natural high.'
Hi. New words open windows,
doors and tighten lines
of communication
between me,
in me
and you.
You who?
Whoever you may be
reading.
Cat stretches.
Bent words and heads.
No need to kiss.
Desire creeps in,
ballet slipper clad,
sneaky;
I take her hand and dance.

sentences 2 blue eye, empty horse

I would like nothing better than to leer into that façade masquerading as a face, fumble lightly with his shirt and tie, and then spit directly into an unsuspecting blue eye.

I would have sprung onto that horse, but my calf, a sudden spasm, left the kind creature perplexed and utterly empty, devoid of weight, watching my grimaced face and folded frame.

sentences

She plunked her profundity down on the table with a blue Bic pen and crumpled paper napkin.

Lowly, sweetly chant a plethora of profanities.

Can you imagine carriages drawn in time towards automobiles... hooves gradually trampled by wheels... just as minnows make frogs?

There’s a fragmentation that occurs socially and economically through the eyes of the beholder.

I am sure that somewhere, like the sparse kernels of corn in my bread, there is continuity in this crumbly society.

To this two-year-old, lawn mowers and legwarmers made literal literary equals.

My crown consists of many chances taken, woven together with the fierceness of too many chances missed.

She wears a brown coat, flecked with rainbows in the autumn sun, dotted with mud in winter, scrubbed, shimmering clean in spring, and glistening wet and sweaty in summer.

All this land lives its own multidimensional universal life.

___________________________________________

again - part of a creative writing assignment... ;)

complete contemplation

Distanced and made strange,
this imposition cloistered
climbs into art that is
made at every moment.
A semantic rotation -
words, sentences,
women, men,
flattened forms rise and ripple,
then fall away;
depart into metaphor.
A kernel of meaning
crumbles
and is drug through poetry:
In a bracketed zone
I stand –
lone
word woman.
a complete contemplation.

_____________________________

this one actually arose (and consequently was transformed) from reading i had to do for my Art Theory and Critical Issues class - an essay by Thomas McEvilley called Art in the Dark.

see

After removing

She angled her body
Seemed to say

“Alright.”

We both stood contentedly

This is when I
And spirit learn to weave

Yesterdays
And we just have to feel and see

Events of Night

Ole!
Seems to be the day
when pines grin
at parading elephants
across the lawn.
An intentional awe of lamentation
in the low slow lantern light.
And, do flowers form chains
linking a grand void triumphant
with elves?
Rise eventually to the corner of Rafael.
Attention! Attention! Attention! -
Charms are debilitating.
Crest on calm,
when in the night the elves on rally
pace cool in the pines
about to avenge gothic.
The forest forms from the fruit of my loins -
comes an army antique.
Don’t let lances or pines,
sergeants or torment
slay villagers entertained,
mediated, maintained.
Come, converge,
with billiards and The Poets,
and these new silver pages
without ventilation.
“Now, Grand Sir,”
leer the pigeons,
“Fondle the gypsies.”

_______________________________________

Believe it or not, this poem arose from a french poem by Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918). This was an assignment for my creative writng II class. perhaps, at a later date i'll post the poem by Apollinaire - an entirely different kettle of fish!

Amen

hey
I know you
ecstasy and time
storytelling tradition

the book falls
to be happy

you know it is funny
ah man

hope you
Me. The true

Good luck

and I do mean it
into
an equal for me
while i

best
like it

entangled roots
allowed ourselves
not yet human

Amen