September 25, 2011

September 25, 2011 in gratitude to Whitman and Ginsberg

Under the austere glow

of New York sunset,

between towers adjusted for perspective:

We are commanded by Whitman to:

“Sound” our “barbaric yawp,

over the roofs of the world.”

Indifference is only apt

for those not afflicted.

And so long as you are conscious,

the friction is poised to ignite.

Here:

in the rhythm

of drums, cans, flutes, guitars,

feet, and vocalizations,

is potential.

Avoiding the pitfalls

of possessive language,

creating a new sense,

which is older than language itself.

To bind by frank understanding and love

and contact and awareness,

which dismantles the machinery

of dead-pan eye consumption

with wanton lust

for the electric candy colored

glorification of god.

We are the dissent,

which is the organic byproduct

of production.

We are the scattered masses

churning in the belly of Moloch.

We are young girls cornered and maced

by obscene police,

protecting the unseen entity.

We are 80 plus arrested for speech,

criminals only in the stench of

a mad Orwellian dream.

We are the collective body

howling over the expanse of:

streets, parks, rivers, oceans,

states, countries, continents,

and universe.

The collective yawp,

back to the first moment,

demanding to be reborn,

awake and aware.

Good-Bye Philadelphia

Good-Bye Philadelphia

The most acute observations

Deliriously board,

Growing tired and fat

Stroking the mind at full length,

(by counting the speaks on my wall).

Onslaught of visions before I am even awake,

This silent repetition,

I am a mammal seeking missile.

It is best to swallow words

Before the mind turns its’ filter on.

It is best to view with the eyes of 22 years,

Or confusion and solitude,

The great wait of liberation.

It is best not to suffer too much

For the sin of idle time,

It is what makes the breath and

Body poetic.

What do you want to hear…

About inspiration?

I have a slight headache

& a tendency to despair.

But I also have silence & the runny egg

Of thought before dawn.

I curl my foot into a ball

The stillness of 6am begins to get to me.

I think of letters I need to write,

Watching the snake of aspirations devour itself.

Suffering in the protracted peach palace,

To recreate.

Distant from the moving frames,

Blowing and bowing,

Boiling the thought down to a pearl,

Exiting the asshole, anxious and seeking love

On the beautiful frozen steps,

By the ubiquitous neon signs,

This cradled child,

Product of glue & promise & paranoia &

Pillows & loathing,

Burnt televised tubes seeking

Sanity in reflections,

Hollowed crack of electric guitars

Burning traces of class and unity.

A photograph of uselessness,

Borrowing points to practice

Uncertainty with an eye

Towards progress.

So we begin with this:

The insanity of notion,

Locked and reached,

Desirous and delirious seeking angels

To accept my worn shadow and cigarettes.

Quit the job, pushing baskets of bright cans &

Mad with love drove boxes and cynicism

To Philadelphia.

Spent money on books & food & wine,

Adjusted to hysteria, locked gentle trees

In great glass vials,

And rubbed my fingers in the spit of her streets.

Today is my good-bye.

Good-bye strange jobs, unions,

Hand rolled cigarettes and blues.

Good-bye crazy angels who washed

Their assholes for the common good of the world.

Good-bye theologians who got drunk

And tried to convince me Christ

Was just a sad-eyed sexy soul.

Good-bye shelves of wine and cigarette ash.

Good-bye steps where I talked to angels

Over invisible, innumerable nights.

Good-bye electric play of the proletariat,

& hoagies stuffed with knowledge.

Good-bye muffled conversations of drunken loneliness,

Heard through these empty walls.

Good-bye saintly uncles who perfected chess in

Their chain smoke longing.

Good-bye countless books,

Passed between bed sheets,

Killing time or expanding it.

Good-bye first poems of public

Old bookstores & bearded bards of adoption.

Good-bye final cigarette stomped out

In dental office parking lot.

Good-bye country bars where I belted

In smoke, songs for the ageless.

Good-bye Bed where we laid

Exhausted in our arms,

Building heavens’ with

Conversations, sex, and laughter.

Good-bye faces who burnt their essence

Into my skull.

Good-bye first candles towards eternity

And the loss of God.

Good-bye terror of repeating the past,

Realizing this is; of coarse, absurd.

Good-bye long highways of blight,

Followed by wilderness,

Golub mountain peaks, valleys,

And the soft fog of mourning.

Good-bye every breath or thought or song or moment.

I return you in the grateful

Understanding that I am

Born with each new moment.

I acknowledge the greatness

Of all your quirky perfection,

And gassho to the great heart

Of

Philadelphia.

Art????

When people talk about ontology in relation to art, they are always searching for some abstract grandiose way of characterizing various things. Now, there is nothing wrong with “abstract” thought in art; in fact it is paramount in many ways to the creative process, but what puzzles me is the strong desire in critics and artists themselves to name everything, specifically in relation to the abstract. This compartmentalization of form and ideals tries incredibly hard to classify everything. Why? What good is this identification system, especially in relation to art? I will make no claims that art is somehow “elusive” and therefore not able to be understood, but rather that art is simply a reflection of a specific idea or moment, and that is all.

This is not to downplay the importance of art, as it is often the very thing which propels movement forward. The importance of the abstract though, is a means to an end. By looking at things from unusual angles or points of perception, we allow ourselves to create new ideas. The problem occurs when we apply this same way of thinking to the understanding of art. By doing this, we separate ourselves from the creative process, making it nothing more than a side point: something to reflect upon in the aftermath of it's creation. The ontology of art is art. In other words, the “being” or “essence” of art is art. It is beautiful, poetic, majestic, and awe inspiring, but it's existence is in and of itself.

This is what we need in a future poetics. A direct reflection of everything, without the incessant ego trying to name everything. When we can move away from this point, and towards a more honest and frank art, we will begin to create art, that truly reflects the universe.