In light of ‘the body electric’ in the poetry of Walt Whitman.
In light of the poetry of Walt Whitman.
In light of the body.
In light of the shadow.
In light of the shadow a question.
In deepest shadow The Leisure Class.
I have been approaching an idea I am still approaching
I circle the idea again and again
for some reason I made this comparison of eyes.
Eyes are truly the window to the soul
The soul is truly a window to the eyes
The window is truly eyes upon the soul.
I think of the glazier in Cocteau’s poetry-film Orphee wandering in the underworld.
I have the VHS tape rewound & worn, rewound & worn.
I may watch Orphee again one day. It reminds me of somebody.
My very own figure of death no longer mine.
In this comparison:
Burl Ives: Actor ~ musician ~ crouching fire-starter, lonely hero, feet of clay, masculine subject-object, middle name Ivanhoe, dancing round the Maypole, related to composer Charles Ives. In the heart is the first principle.
Mona Lisa: Mystery-school perception, the sun-drenched alchemical Renaissance, feminine subject-object, diagram the ancient golden number, echoing feet, touch linen ~ hazelnut paste, envision the Milky Way. In the heart is the first principle.
President: The conceptual zero imagined in three-dimensions, museums collapse beneath clouds funnelling stones, candy cigarettes, a camoflauged animal-skin eye-patch, mythological gods stir in vengeful coughing slumber. Envision the absent first principle.
I may watch Orphee again one day.
I gaze upon her at the walk-in clinic
only the two of us
she carries a brilliant white bowl made of clay
her name scratched into the white glaze
I said haven’t I met you before
she said a long time ago
in the library at Alexandria
I said why are you here
she said the people who started the fire
arrested me for reading Ovid
they sentenced me to life without honey
I said what is the bowl for she didn’t speak
I thought my conversation bothersome
& fell quiet
she said I read Ovid at the speed of light
I said like a honeybee
she said honeybees are slower than the speed of light
I snap my fingers like a jazz musician
You got it!
Honeybees are slower than the speed of light!
She said it might be the title of a brilliant love poem
I said two snails conceptually in love
she said you have to become healthy
I said what’s wrong with me
she said consider velocity
consider clay pots breathing in a cave
unfurling billowing sail-skins of air
unfurling billowing sail-skins of sunshine
the Dead Sea Scrolls
rolled and telepathic
secretly rescued in the fire
she winks one eye
I snap my fingers
she said Im not saying anything
a voice calls her number
two snails conceptually move about in the sunshine
wrapped in honey-coloured sail-skins billowing
unfurling honey-coloured sail-skins often
I am healthy often
the people who start the fire sentence her to honey found secretly on cliff-sides
I walk in circles upon the rounded peak of a vertical mound
chosen because it has no shade trees
I am healthy often eating honey
the brilliant afternoon drenched in honey-coloured telepathic heat
swirling like butter from the ancient cows
a deer pushes his nose into the brilliant white pages
I read Ovid listening to a brilliant buzzing sound.
This is the scene
where I follow the animal
into the forest.
This could be a bird.
A Cubist experiments
and Morse Code.
A classic Piet Mondrian composition collaged incorporating a photograph of my sister’s heroic torn dishcloth.
A ceiling light reflected on the floor, beside the dishcloth, resembling the flame of an oil lamp.
A dyed cotton weave delivering flame to Mondrian’s composition.
Mondrian’s static & inorganic (yet dynamic) composition collaged with incongruity, warmth & organic emotion.
Energy (like Van Gogh’s sunflowers) frayed & twisted contrasting with Mondrian’s geometric formula.
‘Do you need a ride home?’
‘Yes, I just arrived.’
‘Where will you be staying?’
‘Wherever they will have me and speak the truth.’
‘Have you heard of television?’
‘I have read The Little Box poems by Vasko Popa.’
‘Those are two different things.’
I listened earlier to Bob Dylan singing ‘As I Went Out One Morning’ and put up a blog post about the revolutionary Tom Paine and the lyrics to the song (on Dylan’s 1968 John Wesley Harding album) and a photo of Bob receiving the 1963 Thomas Paine award (& how he went on a rant against the respectable liberal audience) & so it goes. In the end I decided to simply show this B&W art (Medieval Gamblers) created in Photoshop today via digital collage & possibly using elements of ink drawings. I could feel the atmosphere of the medieval inn, and textures like wood and burlap, and the mood of danger lurking. There seems to also be danger lurking here & now so it’s not so difficult to intuit. As for gambling I’ve never allowed others to gamble with me. At least I’ve tried & so it goes.
As I went out one morning
To breathe the air around Tom Paine’s
I spied the fairest damsel
That ever did walk in chains
I offer’d her my hand
She took me by the arm
I knew that very instant
She meant to do me harm
“Depart from me this moment”
I told her with my voice
Said she, “But I don’t wish to”
Said I, “But you have no choice”
“I beg you, sir,” she pleaded
From the corners of her mouth
“I will secretly accept you
And together we’ll fly south”
Just then Tom Paine, himself
Came running from across the field
Shouting at this lovely girl
And commanding her to yield
And as she was letting go her grip
Up Tom Paine did run,
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said to me
“I’m sorry for what she’s done”
– Bob Dylan, 1968
I told them I was no expert but they signed the contract anyway.
The flight to the cave in the mountains was so long it included five meals.
When it came time to adjust the settings they told me I would be the operator.
They asked me over the intercom what I saw.
I said, ‘A cow.’
They said, A bull belonging to Genghis Khan?
A bull breathing fire?
A bull pulling a chariot across the sky?
I said, ‘A cow in a barn
watching Sonny and Cher sing The Beat Goes On.’
They said, ‘Adjust the settings.’
I did. They said, ‘Where are you?’
I said, ‘I see Rasputin.’
They said, ‘What is he doing?’
I said, ‘Building a time machine.’