Month: August 2019

Into the Shadows

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Fallen from the precipice
Into the gorge of uncertainty
The liquidity of transient existence

Movement beneath my feet
Created by winds of transformation
My personal tornado 
Seeking to disrupt

But I am unshaken
Strong still
I tell myself

When consciousness bathes me
Its relentless liquidity
Filling every pore.

Never.
Never was I at the precipice
There is no precipice
And these shadows
These new friends
Flow like a gentle spring
Offering shade and rest
Moving toward me

A place I have been
Since birth

Conflict

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“You must join in
You must join us
Not them”

My body floated over the fray

“Come down here
And hate with us.
We will be victorious!

If you do not pick a side
Both sides will devour you.
We are righteous,
And hatred is our friend!”

“So then this must be my demise.
To hover and refuse the chains.
Better to die, than to die while living
For foolish delusions.”

Mounted, divided photograph on plywood. Gesso and oils.

A Little Butterfly

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In front of me
A tiny butterfly
So precious
Delicate
So little!

Behind me
A rising moon
A star we call the sun
A universe
With hundreds
Of billions
Of galaxies

Such a beautiful
Little butterfly

Butterfly pic is a single exposure, Lensbaby photograph.


At a distance of just 160 000 light-years, the Large Magellanic Cloud (LMC) is one of the Milky Way’s closest companions. (Courtesy of NASA’s Hubble)
https://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/hubble/multimedia/index.html

Curved

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From a distance
We were just specks
Meaningless
“No account”

Quiet
From where they stood.

Perspective
Is a strange partner
It’s message moving one
Into dissonance

Our rhythm
The organized explosion
Exact
Trained
From untold centuries
A single tip of the wing
Moving the entirety

Blustered wind
Roared past our feathered ear
Thunder
Created by the masses

It’s all a choreographed dance
And we are perfect
At its execution
Sheer numbers call to predators
And all other inhabitants
“We are here, we are many
And tonight,
This is where we will sleep”

In 2011 I started making multiple exposure impressions that included the dreaded European Starling. They are hated because they are not indigenous and displace other songbirds. But to watch a murmuration is to witness nature at its finest. There is just nothing else like it.

My Shirt is Red

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My shirt is red
And it doesn’t cover my tattoos
A forever reminder
Of another time
Another me
1976, The Pike, Long Beach
Sailors, prostitutes, joy rides
And tattoo parlors

My shirt is red
It covers my skin
Thick in some places
Still thin in others
Shaded differences
The European
Conquering the Inca
Always at odds
With myself

My shirt is red
Like blood
Thick with sticky memory
Occasional regret
Living
Moving
Working
Knowing new things
Bewildered by what it sees

My shirt is red
Like the sadness
That befalls every falling sun
The disconnect
That is inevitable
Regeneration
In an animated, lucid
Suspension

My shirt is red
But it is not warm
Until I put it on
Meaningless in the drawer
And
Depending on what happens
While worn
Could be something terrible
Or,
A small catalyst for hope
In a broken world

My shirt is red