Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

sea jelly fish roll
wavy wavy lines
swim around unseen
looking for a grotto

forces at work in ebbs
and tides hidden in flows
as above light enters a
swell of film, almost green

monster just a fathom belows
all wells and jells soft sway
soon a mother of pearl door
lifts its mat through its open

triangle weedy thatch match book cover
pulp of pulse rises in bits of mirror dark
little dents crust over a gear of tongues
notch in hulls once flocked on froth
licked salt stars

spears like mountains under water
now more pale turned ajasoned shiner
heavenly body surfs the sky moon
tween fingers studded with shells
reflections wander to the glassy top

then a god now a clod of cracked crystals
reasons never known only crash on shore
what they bore in their cloven chest a nest
of lies and lays a fist of torch written nights
and lot in horn bust days lost in fields of maze

heroes of the epic dreamed of in harp strewn
temples of great oratories pinging off hollow
halls thrust deep into the belly of underworld
tombs whose mystery grew in ancient of ways

her oracle flashing down tunnels lined in lapis
clamor with dialogues of philosopher kings broke
the silence with star fish diadem cutting the still
effect of large shadows cast over guttural sounds
naked circular space woven in the holy zeros

clear flanked pillars almost smooth as a goddess thigh
they circulate the vast intricate designs left by serpent
wind dancing between planets and rainbows in alters
of nothingness and laughter echo down the shot curl

whence, the darling philosopher-poet strode to the cliff
edge to contemplate, the twilight of the seething idols
in huge pots of shining diamonds and stir of owl hoots
his gaze wanders over the ruins of cities of language
and moves in and out of the golden Buddhas and hoods

down in the deep dark woods of the darkened hearts
of men and their human words that they sell for meaning
he glances back at the path he followed to this precipice
at his boot steps that he marked with bird crumbs of thought
and leaps off into the wicked up drafts and torrents of totality

only the piercing cry of the beautiful taloned bird is left behind

a complete surveillance
of all earthly habitats
from grotto bare hibernation cache
to outer reaching silken seaweed
dark-side of moon tide

where do you wanna go?
i dunno. where do you wanna go?
been there, been here, been
let's find an open oyster, man
and pearl there then.

clam up, or make clam noise
everything clacks and clocks
in the middle of the daily news
you are suppose to be able to
pick and choose

for all the current fake on the take
or make on the shake, must bare
and grin, at all the unforgiven sin
the ones that get away

for all the sense that it breaks to us
no wonder the attention span of some
goes back only six thousand years
and those are the ones that will
inherit the earth, you see

we are all about attention spans
when we curse your family back
ten generations or so give or take
but what kind of span of the intent
is this?

if folks are still figuring out pyramids
and what that stood for and how they were
stood, is this some kind of counter move
in the miraculous perpetual machine
of oyster like history

as opposed to say Dinosaurs laid Easter eggs?
or the stone heads on Easter island that if
they could speak, would have some insight
on the environment and its delicate balance
they would stand on they heads

should clam up, they tell us, so they can
enjoy their glacier view on the super screen
so they can watch polar bears in Yves Saint
Laurent shades

oh darling, do clam up that little clammy oyster
of yours before it spills the pearls on the floor
and the paparazzi make out spectacle of it
or some obscure group make a cult out of it

blue oyster cult sings banjo backbeat
oops goes my dopamine
another hurdle crumbles
peanut butter cookie bakes into brotherly love
a shared plate of deep honey dipped mindset
over easy, it's a simple reaction
listen to wisdom and crawl through black holes of chance
simple, so easy
a plain map on a curdled brainscan

i mean just look, just listen, just open your heart
we mean, just ignore us, and ignore them
peer inside that grain of truth
it's not a joke, it's as honest as a sunnyday

ecologically speaking, i burp green waves of hope
a fistful of history goes splat in the face of idiocy
opening our books to reread the lies,
well, that ain't gettin us far

words aren't getting us far
paintings haven't done the trick
poetry stirs a revolution
then fizzles after one intense weekend

attention span isn't hanging round no more
left the building
left a note
'be back soon'

points made stand out like chocolate chips
i recall so little about sitting in English class
i left the cookie out in the purple rain
i carried a copy of Lennon's A Spaniard
in the Works around with me a day in
the life once as a high school rebel lad
i think i wanted to be a paperback writer
had no plan nor recipe either, so i did
not have to worry about ever having it
again

it all happened one lost and found weekend
in the flash of a flashback that had yet to
arrive, a revolution like some flying saucer
i forgot i saw as a seven year old kid in a
Halloween bunny costume

first off, i never really cared what people thought
in that my perspective of perception seemed to
always be on some kind of journey
even if that was like walking across some totally
innoucous street, and remembering some detail
that that is as about as significant as a traffic
signal changing, yet for some equally erelavant
event that happens just as the light turns green

this as a temporary metaphor for the experience
of not caring what others, as some kind of suspended
cognitive element, that could be substituted
for another temporary metaphor, that opens up like a rose
that opens into a view of things that shifts around like
a clown shuffling a deck of marked cards, of possible
futures, pasts, presents, like this suspended mark
that comes as a memory but only upon this insignificant
tug on the polymorphous perverse endless possibility

as one stands there on the street corner waiting for
the traffic signal to get the spurt of electric connection
that tells it to change from red to green, and in the split
second of stepping off the curb, you suddenly recall
some meaningless event that happened in your childhood

was my kid consciousness focused on some distant spot?
on some day that was like this day of any days standing
on a corner waiting for change to push my body to step
off the curb and somewhere between red and green the
spot moved across my vision, so at that parallel instant
i acquired the sense of not caring what other think about
what i think, in that that is not exactly what i mean to say

in so far as all the possible meanings that i apply to this
phenomena of my feelings on any given thought or moment
that i happen to be thinking this exact thought that has the
purpose of allowing me to process a certain given subjective
consequence of sequences that impringe on my current idea
of what is really going on around me, and to the extent that
that is going on inside me, i take a certain amount of stimulus
for granted that such and such will take place while i sort it out

so then, what others are thinking about my own subjective experience
is just as subjective as my own sum total of subjective experiences
up to this point where some object passes over our awareness, that
we identify with and call it reality with all its consequences and truth
and yet here i am sensing all these awarenesses moving around like
some amorphous ball that bounces around from surface to surface
until it comes to rest, a perfect circular ball now motionless on this
flat surface, that we observe and draw some conclusions at to its point

and sometimes the hummingbird finds a nest
hangs out for a split moment
and it's enough

i always make a point
to talk to hummingbirds.

that split second or so that they hang
out, is like inexplicable, yet intimate.

sapphire wings
wink, invite you for a drink
nectar of sage flowers