art
Art is as air in the lungs,
is as framed nothingness,
pure thoughtlessness,
empty-headed drama.
Art is worshiping bales of cotton in sweaty claustrophobia.
Art is jam packed with excitement and nerve chilling havoc.
Art is dry in the winter and incandescent under the no-moon of Venus.
Art, baby, has it all.
And life had its roots.
Pears growing up in your attic, on the windowsill with nature herself.
That framed, far off bedroom, dog pound enigma of the century.
Flaming on, brightly.
Art, millennia passed in your science of non-science.
It wore spectacles.
It grazed the curtains.
It cut the grass with a famous murder weapon.
Only on high holy days though.
High and holy.
In its mind it's a race car driving another race car.
It thinks itself into existence.
Eats at the sewer of consciousness, that clump of pain in wild minds.
Paints diamond fields on continents.
Pours rivers of recycled entertainment into earthen jugs.
All in a single day, a high and holy day.
Art didn't start it never was it can't be it won't.
Ancestral royalty locked in the closet of Eden.
Krishna chants in a circle of drowsy astronauts.
Lost cities, inflamed systems and systems on the brink of beginning.
All in one undefinable paradox.
Encomium from the netherworld.
Cosmic radiation and void of void in no space were like hand in aural hand,
like sexual static on the positively charged feet of the goddess,
inter-dimensional queen of space and time and energy.
Art was action, excited movement, false hope.
Art was its own direction, down impossible paths into zero times zero.
It was the way of the river,
and the river was free.
History sank and we dug further.
People were peopling, at the beginning, and making maps of Earth's tin.
In the mud, problems and solutions were created: how to get out of mud,
how to use mud, and so on.
Evolutionary.
Conduciary.
Cracking under the pressure of seeming purposeful, it became first intellectual, then ineffectual.
That is, until it burst like a volcanic cloud in, oh,
just the nastiest of storms, dreadful weather.
Skies blue.
Fields green.
Art, over-full, miscalculated like an early hatchling, took control.
It was wild and devouring all the passion.
Damage storms of brain freeze, liquid depression.
There was chronic downfall.
There was chronic uprising.
There was smoke.
There was air.
There was the bright light of a star,
and the dark nothing of gravity.
Everything was everything was nothing forever and ever.
We lived we died we sang we cried we wrote it all down in a book.
A lone fish in an unforgiving river, a swift current of mind-numbing water,
bubbling psychedelia from unseen crevices.
Art, baby.
~
2001 - 2002