The idea of primitive elements combining to create art, and of the importance of relationships between elements, also exists in visual art and dance.” (Levitin,This is your brain on music; 18)
Our mother is not such of nature, as nature cannot be separate from us.
Rather she is Mother Creation. This air bubble in the vastness of this universe to our knowledge, is an otherwise lifeless place. Our cells made eyes to see, we crawled from swamps, found a way to walked tall and along that road came our child, Art. We birth her each day in our words even if it’s only a stray sentence. Our drive is fueled by him, pushing us each day to string those words together to bring new beauty to Mother creation. Our sometimes seemingly simple poems are really bold sacrifices to our bloodthirsty Mother.
“Love acts beyond the phase wills it into – Hate is obscure, errs, is pain, furor, torn – a Lust to adorn aversion, hope, love eying its object joined to its cause, sees path into Things the future or now.”
How unfair this affair is playing out.
How hopeful I am each time we talk sweetly,
share secret smiles and long locked stares.
How cold it feels each time your hand find another’s instead.
This started so long ago yet burns the same each time.
Still, for your attention and touch I will always fiend
How unfair that these seeds are planted so deep within my psyche,
I’ve been yours since age fourteen.
Like Hephaestus at his forge,
I am molding molten lava
To d e l i c a t e and beautiful form
I dance atop my Volcano with trusty rod in hand
From table to bench,
Do Fire Gods treat molten glass like gum?
Harvesting glass rock to heat and chew in their fiery maw
Twisting on long flame-dripping fingers
Like a child in boredom
Cosmic child at play
Fire and Pressure bring life to Earth
Processing rock into bits and bits of beautiful sand
Fire licks the sand to a wonderful potential
Dripping glory of matter’s birth into new form
as poetry recycles neurons
“The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand. Surely the second coming is at hand..” (Yeats, The second coming)
Passionate immorals hold innocence under the water until no bubbles of hope resurface. The admirable and kind hide in apathy and an unwillingness to try. Hopelessness spreads like an airborne sickness as the sinners, heathens and demons of this world take up arms of ambition. May Armageddon be a tilling of this dry and used dirt, surely the good have planted in secret, the seeds to grow this earth anew
“Imagine a series of Chinese boxes in which each box contains a series of chinese boxes.”
(Fractal Geometry, 22)
“You are everywhere partial and entire.”
(Hymn, A.R. Ammons)
I hold the universe in my curves
A plethora of galaxies hidden in my pupils
Planets far and near tucked with the hair behind my ear
“Everything small is just a small version of something big.”
A wise adventurer once said
so I’ll wear asteroids strung like bracelets,
and adorne stars for earrings
and bathe in ideal redundancies in the echo chamber
so I can hear the angel’s voices
all from the peal of a bell.
I am Everywhere, partially and entirely
committing to no commitments
Queen empress of the universe and peasant to myself.
A Series of me in which each me contains a series of me.