fragility of falsehood
my vision hinges on the postulate that fallacy—the unexpected momentary collapse of authenticating mechanisms—might actuate a disturbance of sorts, that the overarching perspective which customarily validates the relational aesthetic between the inventive impulse and the essence of realness so often diminished by the ‘thereness’ of geometric forms and their corresponding figure/ground relationships would, rather than reflexively abdicating its hierarchical imperative to mediated space, exploit the cross-referentiality between that intuitive realm from which the carnivorous self lays siege to legitimacy, and the restrictive albeit reassuring body-politic of day-to-day understanding.
this incursion of graphite into pressed cellulose means to embody the eternal struggle between that which is overtly transparent and that which is eternally opaque. the dry fuzz of obfuscation and clarity’s glittering razor set up an über-prophetic resonance whereby the underlying territory of energies (perceptive maxima of optimism and truth mingled with the visceral detritus of fear) implicates the chaotic embrace of self-actuation in the lingering tautology of evil. this phenomenology of disappearance reflects an ontological nexus at exact odds with the preternatural impulse effecting the cartesian mind-body split. as an artist who is concerned with beauty, it is my fervent intention to deconstruct this meta-spiritual fidelity to exact ideas, thus annihilating the mythology of linkages gripping our world in an ambivalent yet viselike embrace.
(First exhibited at the Wilmington Fringe Festival)
Sun’s last shrapnel savages trees, steel
twists as leaves. I try
to shake it off, but you
stay altitudes away, grains
of desert sand
lain end to end.
I search for you
in the humming rocks. They pulse
against the outer facts of their shells, against
the trill of your bright armament. Sun glint
ejects from the muzzle’s strobe, sniffs
its prey, turns
to fata(l) morgana.
Illusion, mirage. Gravel
catches my chest, travels
an undone road. How long can you breathe in
insurgent water? Flanks fray. Froth
creeps up the ripped river’s clear
and present fingers
that press oblivion
against your throat.
Let me be
your moss helmet, your forest charm, your
perpetual coat. And you—
you be immortal, you song, you rhythm,
you salt sea
rain always comes back to.
I’m Not Listening! I Am Flying.
on Leonard Baskin’s portrait of Wm Blake
A perilous path divides his face: the public side, its lucid pupil,
its respectable shading—
and the Other—night river gushing
from the Galaxy of Un-Reason. Yes,
this eye is blind—overexposed,
a burn, a Peephole
to the Infinite. God is every Man, Blake’s voices say. One thought,
fills immensity. I search my own head, find
Pastries, Paradoxes, Orchestrations
of the Angels of Hell
I must attend to—
Worlds at stake, Powers
and Energies dragging their prey
through sharp grass, clouds boiling down
the harsh declines of Judgment’s shoulders.
Exuberance is Beauty; I uncover Racks, Blades, Buckets, Fires—
Scaffolds to swing from—I can stand the rope!
But I can’t smash past those smeary windows
you people hold me to.
The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil’d. Gluttonize! Fornicate! stop stopping me!
You don’t know what God wants.
oil in the Gulf, as seen from the Delaware Beach
Gashed earth won’t scream—
bleeds itself, arterial,
ocean—the soaked bandage
pressed against this beating.
Dark blood transfuses the Gulf, congeals
at edges, festers
in estuaries—a soup: ancient
bodies of plants, choleric
pasts back to haunt, whose foul
humors’ ghostly fingers
slide into some marsh just as
our naughty doctor mines the body
of girl after baby girl. No one
reacts, not until
a million little girls
with their birds and fishes,
the black rubber hands.
I cannot look at you,
signal like squid. Blue-black wash silks the place
between, rides air
like lingerie, opalescent
soap. Can you feel it
guile your shoulder, wire its slight tight tentacle
over your neck?
Salt, weed, scent of oat. I see behind my eyes,
my chest, tiny wings—a weakening
bird beats my surfaces, presses pushes raises empty
as ice. I feel them hovering, detached tents. So naked,
jelly in an urchin shell, surf green bulbous kelp,
I mean invertebrate. Do we
know each other? Oh yes as tongs know flesh, as fat
recalls the spit,
as Vesuvius, Mauna Loa magma hits the sea
two feet away,