Here’s a photographer with his sleeves rolled up. Muddy shoes too. A kind of photojounalism we should embrace, and learn from.
Some think these videos disturbing. I find a closed mind disturbing.
I’m not real social at the moment. I’m working on real-time music and setting up my recording studio. Home style, of course.
Patience – man at work here.
This is a story of long ago.
The one where the man
stepped out of the wilderness
for the first time.
He looked around and thought,
hmm, this looks pretty good.
Then night fell.
He could not see the sky.
Could not find the stars.
This made him sad.
He went down to the river,
he could not drink the water.
He would not wash in the water.
He did not want to smell like that river.
He walked through the canyons
of glass and steel.
The air sickened his spirit.
He found no good foods growing.
This made him even sadder.
He came upon a young man.
He said; “Sit down with me son,
and I’ll tell you a story”.
I’ll tell you a story
of Long Long Ago.
When rivers ran clean
and the sky was all aglow.
When mountains and forests
were sacred places to go.
He turned to the young man
and said; “Now you tell me a story”.
The young man, still lost in wonder
had no words.
Just stared at the holes in his shoes.
I awoke into a dream.
It was the night the moon
fell from the sky.
A strange pastel orange
rolled as a great wheel
across the garden royal.
Rolled, eclipsing the castle facade.
Having crushed the great paper
red roses bearing witness.
A red stained icon of her passing.
Leaned her great dark
against the too brown battlements
retiring her mystery
beneath the twinkling colors
of uniform stars.
Tired of rushing unmoving,
stopped her pure blue manic
flowing to some mysterious
Living only in a child’s mind.
Lent mirth to the disruption of all things.
Hysterical peals through a scattered land.
Chaos loosened feet, colors flying
through piccolo voices resounding from everywhere.
Ah, but Juliette. Fair Juliette
With a single turn,
in the grace of angels,
stretched out her sequined arm.
Ah, Juliette. Fair Juliette
With a single cry,
muting the flutes of Avalon.
Out sang the heavenly choir
accompanying the falling moon
By her single voice,
I slept out of my dream.
Daddy, Daddy, did you see me?
The house lights went on.
Spirit Fog rolled by my back window last night.
I moved from the North.
I asked Spirit Fog to reveal itself.
Spirit Fog would not.
I said, “But, you must reveal yourself”!
Spirit Fog calmly considered this.
Spirit Fog said, “I don’t have to do anything”.
It seemed Spirit Fog grew stronger, as it receded
into the moonlit, silver tipped, landscape.
Spirit Voice moved to the North.
Spirit Voice said, “Spirit Fog needed that resolve”.
Here I sit with pen
(oops) make that keyboard
Trying to write
what I scarce understand.
My mind (gosh, make that computer)
A jungle of half formed plans.
I spew (heavens, make that send)
into the land.
Thoughts that have no form
We can make a mother board
Give me a cat with a bird to kill.
I’ll cook his hide and pluck a quill.
I’ll bleed for ink and if the sheep are still.
I’ll get a skin to write my will.
Oh for the Good Old Daze.
Do I study the guitar, or does the guitar study me? I am the active principle, the guitar is the passive principle.
One best be passive when studying. My guitar is tasked to find ways of singing past my fumbling fingers. It teaches me to forget my gross actions, closely listen to her beautiful voices. She leads me to her next song.
Who’s greater, my guitar or her ‘master’? Who among us could sing with a death grip on our throat? A fist beating our chest? Fingers poking our tendons?
Who am I to study such a thing? Can I lead the guitar to where I’ve never been?
Sweet singer, study me well. Teach me. Teach me to sing and dance with you.
I KNOW I DON’T KNOW.
Today I used a calculator for the first time.
I discovered I am only 24,000 dreams into my life.
So, don’t ask me, I know nothing.
I told someone I lived, they said “no” they lived.
All of these dreams I only imagined?
So, don’t ask me, I know nothing.
I walked home today, my home said “no, I walked to you”.
How do you argue with a talking home?
Don’t ask me, I know nothing.
Ah, but the cat said “hello”.
What a month for a daydream. So I thought something appropriate. A freshly seeded poetry garden for spring.