The SLC is a small town in regards to art. If you are an artist, if you attribute yourself such a goddamned title, you know just about every other one; it's sickening.
The mass conglomeration of hipsters in this town constipates me to an ever-lasting degree. My brow attached to their strings - a perpetual down-ward tug. Call me... Scowl.
These streets are filled w/ bouncing cadence memorized for the imminent foreclosure of the soul - while being young is still hip. These streets, in all their beautiful glory, are stomped upon by a great measure of futility; their voices never able to reach the echo-canyon of history. Foot-prints, here, are embedded in sand.
The air is saturated w/ speech & hymn sung to many, but heard only by the deaf. i idly wonder, in easier times, if Brautigan's Blast is ever heard. This i doubt, for how can one hear another's blast, when their own trigger is broken?
The difference between remembrance & actuality astounds me.
i remember nights like these. Cannot place them, but remember.
Another Bottle to make love to.
Another Dream to have.
Another another to have.
& the world moves on.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
kaleidoscope
i am standing under the azure of day next to my mail box, my hand idly holding mail that will never be opened. i feel like i am in a trance. A summer's clear sky can do that. It can hold you captive w/ no particular meaning. It just sends you into limbo, & w/out a choice, things, shapes, begin to swirl before your vision. Today, i am a kaleidoscope.
i drop the mail from my hand, sending it scattering to the porch & sit down. W/ the dreams for now out of the way, my wife still gone, i light a cigarette & begin to twist myself. Shapes & colours dance before me in no particular way. W/ each twist, each turn, they form an image, break up & form another. i stare like a mule seemingly into nothing. & at the moment, i am a mule. Or a tree. Or... a mist from the past, dewing upon everything. Slick & wet.
The air is desert-hot but i do not notice the tears of sweat forming on my brow. Cars zip by on 9th ST but i take no notice of their monstrous bellows. Passers-by talk of everything but i hear nothing of anything, only the grating of my own twisting.
All at once, these shapes, these colours, make sense to me. They form into bodies that are familiar, or at least, once were. Right there is William Everton, a self proclaimed father, a leader, a Flesh among Spirits. Over there, is Leonard Demoine writing as if tomorrow may never be realized, & perhaps it just might not be. Standing in front of me is Thad Fellows, a Dreamer of the worst sort, a partner in crime, a friend, a fellow prisoner of unbreakable shackles. Off in the distance there stands, in a hazy font, Jewel & Rose. They are waving. Both of them holding notebooks bound by chains. Waving goodbye or hello, i cannot tell.
Thad seems to be telling me something. i cannot hear him. i can smell the odor wafting from his skin. William, too, is telling me something but it seems something more like a warning but...
"What are you doing out here?"
& like the snap of bone, these images flick out of sight & i look up.
My wife is standing before me. She has returned.
Grabbing the mail, i tell her, & we tromp up the steps to our apartment, to our home, & close the door, the lock yelling into place.
i drop the mail from my hand, sending it scattering to the porch & sit down. W/ the dreams for now out of the way, my wife still gone, i light a cigarette & begin to twist myself. Shapes & colours dance before me in no particular way. W/ each twist, each turn, they form an image, break up & form another. i stare like a mule seemingly into nothing. & at the moment, i am a mule. Or a tree. Or... a mist from the past, dewing upon everything. Slick & wet.
The air is desert-hot but i do not notice the tears of sweat forming on my brow. Cars zip by on 9th ST but i take no notice of their monstrous bellows. Passers-by talk of everything but i hear nothing of anything, only the grating of my own twisting.
All at once, these shapes, these colours, make sense to me. They form into bodies that are familiar, or at least, once were. Right there is William Everton, a self proclaimed father, a leader, a Flesh among Spirits. Over there, is Leonard Demoine writing as if tomorrow may never be realized, & perhaps it just might not be. Standing in front of me is Thad Fellows, a Dreamer of the worst sort, a partner in crime, a friend, a fellow prisoner of unbreakable shackles. Off in the distance there stands, in a hazy font, Jewel & Rose. They are waving. Both of them holding notebooks bound by chains. Waving goodbye or hello, i cannot tell.
Thad seems to be telling me something. i cannot hear him. i can smell the odor wafting from his skin. William, too, is telling me something but it seems something more like a warning but...
"What are you doing out here?"
& like the snap of bone, these images flick out of sight & i look up.
My wife is standing before me. She has returned.
Grabbing the mail, i tell her, & we tromp up the steps to our apartment, to our home, & close the door, the lock yelling into place.
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