Arising again.Awakening at dawn to finally clear skies and a canopy of stars.To a grouping some society long ago decided was Orion.Arising to read the self. A reading via soft light of the half moon.A reading of other agreements scattered in the pages of books on the desk.A reading of cool air pushing through the …
Why poison the frame?There is no way to get away from it. Even if the art is surrounded by a moat of mud – the art is still the art.Though the heart is dressed in rags, it beats as well in a tuxedo. A foot trodding the path doesn’t spin the earth. But that’s another …
When I say I contain much, what am I?What is that container?That “I” is a membrane of thoughts around a lifetime of characters played carefully.A bubble of swirling soap around air.An infinite border to nothing. And what was contained in those electrons of air?Stories about the self.Separations crafted by an imagined overlord. Which brings us …
And the woman said, “I’m nothing. I’m nobody, and I don’t do nothing.” In a nonchalant Mancunian accent she actually said that,as if it weren’t a revelation of the age. And she couldn’t be more correct. “But silly,” said he. “You’re also the center of the of the fucking universe.”
If I own art, I don’t want to own cheap art.If I’m making art, I don’t want to create cheap art.If I’m painting a wall, I want expensive, lush color.If I’m telling myself stories, I want dazzling twists and turns. If I’m setting down beliefs, I want nothing – not even an infinite tube that …
