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5.20

Untitiled WIP 50x60 Absorbing aboriginal work into a piece about mermaids







4.26




In all the words
Are pictures
And in all my brushes words
Whispered
Gaped
Sighed







3.17











In all
the sky
where
the stars
the moon
the sun
alight
love lives
and escapes
a narrative
as perfidious
and wonderful
and impossible
as all those
aforementioned glitter
are unattainable
to the touch.







3.1

The Ides of March approach and with them the I'ds as in I'd have been happier if. My painting brought it to mind. you see, it has no course other than the act. We could be so happy if only we'd dare.







2.22




The addition of yellow to the bare edges
and the diminution of the lower heavy stripes.

thus simplifying some clutter
giving more weight to that which is left.

The bottom scumble was intended to
prepare the area for overlay of yellows
and terra cotta red, but I was surprised
this afternoon by the rightness of it.


so far................







2.7

I've been searching for a new path
what with the brambles of current life
stuck to my shirt and socks.
Oh, the thorns of the rose, etc etc.

Having the skill to pretty much make
what ever suits me
doesn't fuel the need,
necessarily,
to make anything.

My studio is full of things
seen part way toward
completion
but unfortunately
all the way to fulfillment.

I'm not sure there's enough raison
to get to d'etre.

I just don't have an answer
to loss.
None of my art
brings either cadaver
or other loss to life.
And I might as well stop trying
and, instead,
settle down
and
wait
my
turn.

In the interim,
before becoming one with muons and quarks
my lovely and I are going
to Australia.

I shed thorns there once
and maybe
maybe
shall again.







2.1

The hardest part of having speech
is
not being able to speak freely,
even as the phrases pressure the walls of the
heart
to be freed.









1.30




Other ideas about his fall
From the sun
From grace
He holds a feather
And muses
Before
The thud







1.3




As things grow
Even as they obscue
And hide the fertile memories
That
Spawned
Them


A pilgrim's progress is what this is!







12.29

the year
dies.
It has barely breath
to rasp;
to rail against the end
and the new year
pretending to his throne.

My heart is old
and is audience
to lament and croak.
My mind is young
and tsk tsk's
the wail.

My eyes feed
the noggin
with such beauty
as only lust can savor;
even as the will
is thwarted
and the candle flickers.

I despise ends.












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