www.kenboe.com

12/11/2009

“SYNCHRONIC VESSELS”

Filed under: — site admin @ 8:47 pm

LAS VEGAS EXHIBITION IS IN A BOX.

See works from Ken Boe’s Teapot Series at
8 Martini’s Gallery
Upstairs in the Arts Factory
107 East Charleston Blvd.
Studio #205
Las Vegas, Nevada 89104
NEXT STOP: PARIS ON THE PLATTE COFFEE HOUSE AND WINE BAR IN DENVER COLORADO, FOR THE MONTHS OF MAY AND JUNE 2010

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO ATTENDED OR WORKED MY LAS VEGAS EXHIBITION

Visit the Gallery during the week
T-F 12pm to 4pm or by appointment (call 702-366-9077)
I WILL BE EXHIBITING AT THE WAF ART EXPO IN CHICAGO MARCH 27, 28TH, AND THE LAS VEGAS WAF ART EXPO APRIL 2ND. FOR MORE INFORMATION GO HERE: http://www.worldartfoundation.org/

The synchronic vibration between object and metaphor is the central magic or beauty that my artwork is concerned with. It is a thesis behind my art that all objects, be they containers such as teapots, old rusty cans, sculptures, tree roots, or concepts themselves, continually vibrate frequencies of inchoate meaning which register in our minds as a continuum of metaphorical variability. This is as simple as a child imagining a tin can to be a space ship, or as complex as Game Theory . I am interested in how the embodied mind gives meaning to things, but also, that our minds are but another coincidence on the shores of Universe where waves of energy flow in and out dynamically in collaboration with creation. Original artwork is by this means a powerful player in the rhythmic conundrums of conscious and unconscious, and the way we experience a synchronic vocabulary of our immediate peripheral environment, which is the language we share with those whom we are conversing with, where we are conversing, such as at one of my art receptions.

Just as one concept becomes an analogy for another, one image or physical object metaphorically becomes conceptual, and the cycle continues indefinitely. Within the random details of its liberating ambiguity, original artwork is one of the most powerful tools we have for generating not just new meanings, but new coincidental meanings that tie our creativity into the breathing universe. By artwork I mean painting, all the traditional arts and crafts, also including their collaboration and synthesis with other mediums such as philosophy and mathematics. This manifesto is itself an artwork. And historically, one could say that both science and possibly religion are sub-genres of art.

Both the reception and invention of meaning appears to take place in our minds, such as in private thoughts. But even those do not occur in a vacuum for us interstellar-dreaming social animals engaged in so much conversation and collaboration, where meaning takes place in much more intense oscillations of simultaneous understanding, or synchronic vibration. Though the dictionary of idiom and simile, and the thesaurus of synonym may capture in recorded word formations many of these intersections of object and metaphor, actual meanings only occur like puffs of smoke, or flashes of light. The meanings stay warm no more than a pot of tea shared by two people discussing them (creatively finding meaning and re-finding meaning as their minds roam the languages they find themselves in, which are as much the objects in the room they inhabit as it is their other available lexicons.)

Meaning is contextual, but the ambiguity of art allows infinite signifiers of potential meaning/metaphor to be juxtaposed in experimental compositions which are open ended for viewers to harvest in whatever moment prevails. The “textus” of context is a kaleidoscope of variability where meaning is weaved from context, but always changing because the infinite variables of context are always changing. If “so and so” says something while drinking tea that is a different context, and therefore meaning, than if he was drinking beer when he said it. If an artwork is painted on canvas that is a different context than if it is painted on plywood. The spin of meaning continues if its tar, dirt, and blood painted on the canvas, but expensive oil paints and gold leaf on the plywood. All this before we even get to the antique pornography or the images stolen off of a secret government database.

Synchronic vibrations become meaning like puffs of light in the moment of a brainstorm, and then they are gone (though the artist may put them into fac-simile – pun intended.) At best, facsimiles are all that we are ever left with. But it works because then the facsimile (artwork, neologism, consumer product, etc.), and the details of its ambiguity, become objects through which the synchronic vibrations may continue at other new levels, history be damned (or undammed.) Thus the word facsimile itself is etymologically rooted in likenesses, not literalness, prior to the technology metaphors it generated from early copy machines to fax machines, meaning exact copy, and now back again to my usage. And the poetry to this is that “exact copies”, things “literal”, “realist”, etc. are no less likenesses than the most ambiguous metaphor. Only context can shift it around rhetorically to where you want it, and then its gone again, copies to the wind.

The kinds of objects that I am most concerned with at the moment are containers. The container “schema” is, according to my old teacher, the philosopher Mark Johnson, and his collaborators, metaphorically/conceptually rooted in our bodily experience in this gravity-based world. Our bodies are containers, ideas or sets are containers, art shows are containers; anything with an “in” or an “out” is metaphorically connected to our bodily experience with/in container schemas. So there is a lot of room for artists to mess around in there, with these ideas, or just ones intuition, collaborations, and research of container phenomenon. My theory is not necessary, it is just another artwork to bounce ideas off of.

For Synchronic Vessels, my January 2010 exhibition in Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada, I have focused on the teapot as a central theme. The images themselves are secondary to the techniques used to paint them. Shadows are casted from old used containers dumped into the desert, and deteriorated. Scribbles are registered from my unconscious mind and then randomly drawn into teapot persona. Colors, textures, paint application methods, and compositional modalities are juxtaposed off of one another. Philosophy aside, my intent is to create images which 1.) Haven’t existed before but are on some level attached to our worldly experience. 2.) Art which directly represents the creative process itself by being experimental. 3.) Art which is available to the viewers unconscious as a source of creative inspiration and visual vocabulary. 4.) Art which has the possibility of emotional narrative, for easier digestion. Well maybe not.

For Synchronic Chaos, my January 2010 exhibition in Downtown Phoenix, Arizona, I have hazarded more experimental work using encaustic painting techniques where pigments, resins, and bee’s wax are burned into the artwork, along with other assembled materials. In these works I further all the techniques used in the teapot paintings, as well as invent new ones, which is partly the point. Synchronic chaos is that moment when what appears chaotic aligns within us either as déjà vu, coincidence, or as an insight, revelation, miracle, or art form. Like a flash of smoke, doing highly experimental artwork assures producing articles of synchronic chaos. The artwork itself is the facsimile of ones chaotic determinations with the unrehearsed; the mixed-metaphors sodden with mixed-media; the emotionally and intellectually improvised problem solving of purged imagination and physical world. The artwork, in turn, is a prime conductor for transmitting its own synchronic vibrations in the mental hands of audience. The difference between my two exhibitions, their duality, is that the vessel work has a more refined, or focused ontology, whereas the chaos show, like the space itself, is more open-ended. Both shows are full of the details of ambiguity from which you may invent your own salvation, if so inclined.

For more on Ken Boe, click here.

click here for more info on my Downtown Las Vegas show’s gallery Las Vegas exhibition runs through February.

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Join the discussion among Music, Theater, Dance, Science, Sculpture, Film, Philosophy, Paint, Poetry People!

”...Illustrating whirlygig effigies…”

5/9/2009

ART APPRECIATION = KNOWLEDGE = CHOICE: YOU LIKE WHAT YOU OR SOMEONE ELSE DECIDES THAT YOU WILL LIKE

Filed under: — site admin @ 8:31 am

A Brief Essay By Ken Boe Concerning The Phenomenology Of Taste, Taste As Free Will, and Morality As Taste. (continues below)

Synchronic Vessels (Las Vegas Show)
Original Oils On Canvas, (a few mixed-media works)
by Ken Boe, from his Teapot Series.

Open through February, 2010. Call (702) 366.9077 for more information or an appointment.

Reception First Friday Art Walk, February 5th 6PM to 10PM (Preview recepetion Thurs. 6-9)
8 Martinis Gallery at the Arts Factory, Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
107 East Charleston Blvd, Studio 205 (right upstairs from rear parking.)

The title of this essay goes directly to my point, which the essay reiterates, which is that you like what you choose to like which means that taste is also a moral decision by virtue of both what you exclude as well as HOW you include that which you will like. It is the choice of having knowledge or not having knowledge. If you decide that you DON’T LIKE Abstraction in painting, for instance, this is a moral decision and prejudice which is usually reinforced through purposeful ignorance. The same would go for not liking various ethnic art forms, or European Classical forms of art. But the morality of taste is skewed because knowledge is required to like something, so you must either choose to learn about something prior to being able to like something, or this learning was forced on you through body, environment, schooling, religion, or parents.

To declare that you DON’T appreciate something is therefore a very grave task because it reveals either your ignorance of it or a political decision to remain ignorant of it. For the more that you will learn about something, the more you will appreciate it, whether or not you agree with its politics, etc. For you should know that if you don’t like Opera, or Ballet, or Hip Hop it is because you don’t know much about it, or its language. Judgements of taste should always be reserved for this reason unless you are content with being amoral. This is not to say that Hip Hop is as sophisticated as ballet. This is not to say that you must listen to any kind of music outside of your current mood. But to essencially declare it off-limits by claiming that you “don’t like it” is the equivalent of being a moral idiot. The moral human is always learning about new cultural forms and always self-actualizing new tastes. Though this essay doesn’t go far into it, opinions and morals also work in this manner, and are related to other concerns which will be overviewed such as post-traumatic stress disorder as dis-taste, or mindless taste.The issue of quality is no trump card, either, because other concerns such as individuality, originality, and basic human beauty trump the issue of quality. We appreciate the quality of something based on a set of agreements and histories, and expectations. But we appreciate a wrecked car in the same way, it is just as subjective. Collectability and economic value may concern themselves with quality, though scarcity rules these forces, too, so I would not make excuses for political dislikes on the basis of quality. You will still betray your immorality and ignorance concerning basic human beauty.

There is no art appreciation of any particular kind of art, there is nothing, period, that you like that you haven’t acquired knowledge of either through formal education, self-education, direct bodily experience, enculturation, or instinct(species education.). The more you like something, the more you will want to learn about it, even more. The more you dislike something, the more you will want to avoid knowledge of it. But if you seek to study your enemies, beware, you may come to love them (unless, of course, you’re a real psychopath incapable of empathy.)Higher Tastes are those acquired mindfully, such as learning about a culture new to you, or learning to play a musical instrument later in life. Lesser are the tastes acquired mindlessly, such as nostalgia or sentimentality, which are likings based on those tastes acquired as children or culture and not out of free will. Only when the lesser tastes are revisited and studied with concern do they become higher tastes, and not merely nostalgic. Of course, we can become nostalgic about our higher tastes over the years, but this can devolve into “resting on our laurals.” This is an important distinction because many people today suffer upon themselves and the world a mindlessness of taste and immoral rejection of” the other”, or the “different” in their tastes, because for the most part they only like things nostalgic to themselves, including most of their so-called opinions about the world, and do not learn outside the circle of these opinions and tastes.

It is often said that Cigars, Scotch Whiskey, and certain foods are “acquired tastes.” This is of course true in the larger sense of all likes and dislikes, and is entirely based on knowledge and decision, either to learn, or not to learn. I suppose Smoking Crack is an acquired taste. I can try to impress your view of politics by saying I don’t want that knowledge, but this is immoral. One should always seek to be empathetic, and through reading fiction I may appreciate the human being phenomenon of smoking crack without actually doing it. The rest is all politics.
The enlightened modern human being is constantly self-educating and experiencing of new things, particularly through arts and literature. There may be a limit to what you can “master” (a dubious term) but one learns to be mindful, or “open minded”. If you merely live on automatic pilot in the idioms of the day/or the culture of your past, you will neither appreciate nor understand much of what is going on in the world. You will have a few tastes, they will be limited, and other people’s tastes and ideas will make you angry.

In most cases, for instance, your religious choices and tastes will have been chosen for you and you do not know them by free will. If you choose to learn more deeply about your appointed religion you will come to appreciate it even more even if you are to become a critic of its own limitations. If you don’t learn much about your appointed religion, you may continue to pay lip service to it and you may enjoy it nostalgically around the holidays. Appreciation Equals Knowledge. You may be too afraid to learn about other religions because if you do you will appreciate them, and if your mind is polarized in black and white thinking, then this would befuddle the little world you are accustomed to.

Polarized reaction ruins the common opinion in these situations. If I was born into, or have chosen Religion A, then Religions B though Z must be “wrong”. If I was born “white”, then “black” must be “bad”. If I’m a surrealist painter then pop art must be “crap”. If I was born “male” then “female” must be “lesser than”. If there are 2 then 1 of them must be better than the other. This kind of dualistic thinking is a skewed paradigm which further isolates the imagination, keeping people from opening up and learning about what other varieties of life have to offer. The good news is that one can learn to appreciate a world full of morally ignorant people, including ourselves. It’s called Comedy.

The most important thing to learn to appreciate are the arts because the arts are the Symbiotic Tree Of Everything, even food and science. This is particularly true for the modern, contemporary, and experimental arts. The avant-garde, or cutting edge of culture and technology. For these are the places where human beings broach the most crucial edges of our evolution in the broadest possible terms, the finest details, the old and the new. And if you don’t choose to join in and learn with them, you may miss out on this evolution. You will also miss out on some valuable collectables in the art world for the mindful collector knows that any artist who has developed their own knowledge and techniques will have scarcity and will become more valuable.

3/14/2009

KEN BOE ART SHOWS

Filed under: — site admin @ 9:51 pm

There’s no better place for enlightened discussion than in the presence of art.

It is my belief that art enriches the language and character of discussion that occurs in its presence. Put another way, its my thesis that the environment we share is a language we share. Where our bodies are is where our brains peripherally seek out available metaphors, analogies, and other more sentient designs that help bring forth a more richer dialogue. If people would like to, we may have these discussions in the future on anything from fairly casual subjects to outright philosophy. This week’s events will center around ideas for future art shows, their promise and import, and really anything. I am also prepared to read an art statement later in the event schedule for us to discuss these ideas, should anyone be interested.



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Click here to view THE COPPERMINE PICTURE CAFE’S CURRENT EXHIBITION

Click here to REVIEW MIAMI ARTWORKS 2008 BOOMTOWN ART SHOW

MIAMI ART WORKS 509 SULLIVAN, MIAMI AZ 85539

9/7/2008

Kenboe’s Experimental Artist-materials Research Laboratory

Filed under: — site admin @ 9:31 pm

KEARL

There is a revolution going on in the development of new metamaterials such as silver nanowires already famous for possible military cloaking devices, and there is an entire history of innovations the past few centuries, and there are archeological discoveries going back thousands of years, and little of this is being considered for the production of art. I believe that new means of creating art should be one of our first priorities, and that by applying new and old directions of technological innovations to art production there is likely to be a much greater “spin-off” effect in all areas of science, culture, and industry, than military applications, which are too secretive for this synthesis to occur.
METAMORPHOSIS

I am therefore gathering together the proposal for KEARL: The Kenboe Experimental Artist-materials Research Laboratory. My initial thoughts are that this would eventually become a large well funded institute and residency where scientists and other types of researchers would be commissioned in the form of a Residency to apply their research to art applications in association with other artists also on Residency who would collaborate with these researchers on specific projects, as well as spin-off projects within the synergy of a very creative environment. KEARL will hopefully be located in a very small town along with several other creative organizations such as galleries, cafes, a theatre residency, and writer residencies, so that the entire town, along with the locals, becomes a kind of creative incubator in general, but one which also engenders greater focus than a commuteropolis.

There are materials research laboratories everywhere studying everything from road pavement and house-building materials to archaeometallurgy and paleobiology from which to draw new ideas and materials for artists to work from, let alone the exciting work being done in nanotechnology and physics.

I will post more as I develop these ideas. Please contact me at kenboe@gmail.com if interested in helping to make this dream become possible. Below are some links, and I will add more later.

This mixed-media/mixed-message art work a combination of photographic prints of found objects, cut out around those objects, oil paint, chalk, pumice, enamel hardener, and spraypaint with Fiberized Aluminum Roof Asphalt on Masonite. There is one other, not shown, which is a double-sized dyptic of this same series. Though highly mixed-media, these works are built to last, and are extremely strong works of experimental art. To be in the presence of these works is to endow oneself in the very idea of creativity and experimentation, and a host of other possible meanings.

Collaboration by Ken Boe and Art Kenyon, 2007

5/31/2008

Click The Cross for THE WEEDING: ">Download this Screenplay as a PDF<"
  • Click The Cross for THE WEEDING:
  • Filed under: — site admin @ 9:04 am

    THE WEEDING is about a gang of outlaws who decide to recruit white collar criminals to become armed robbers, weeding out the weak ones through attrition by having them do small jobs prior to the “big job”. Much of this occurs through a magically shifting point of view brought on by a mysterious drug. Chaos reigns down on best laid plans at every turn, with Murphy’s Law taken to a whole new level of horror.

  • Screenplay: c l i c k here for the Screenplay THE WEEDING

    *e-mail THEWEEDING@KENBOE.COM or you may reach me at 928-273-7679 (Contact info on PDF has been updated 11/11/08)

  • 5/25/2008

    Order below for a copy of the Greylight Anthology to read Enemy Towers!

    Filed under: — site admin @ 7:24 pm

    Click HERE for my stage play Enemy Towers

    Enemy Towers is an avant-garde parody of academia written to coincide with an art exhibit curated to have works by local artists both in the performance, as well as in an adjoining gallery space where a reception will be held each night before and after the play. Its party-time!

    Its first run at Greylight Theatre, directed by Jason Hedrick, was a hilariously smashing success, leading to publication in an anthology which, ironically, has occasionally been used as a text book in academia.

    The Weeding is a screenplay which is less obviously avant-garde, but very much and subversively is so. More and more my works tend toward tweaking the idiom of medium, genre, and language in general. So I give you Hollywood conventions turned in on themselves. In film business “log-line” speak, which I hate, The Weeding is something like Reservoir Dogs meets Six Degree’s of Separation on acid.

    My screenplay “GREY PROPAGANDA” won Honorary Mention in the Holman Screenplay Writing Contest at Wichita State University, in 2002. Contact me for more information on that.

    *e-mail THEWEEDING@KENBOE.COM or you may reach me at 928-273-7679

    5/21/2008

    Artist Statements by Ken Boe

    Filed under: — site admin @ 6:04 pm

    Click for Mixed-Media /Mixed-Message

    Click for Synchronic Alchemy

    Click For Metamorphosis

    The late Kelly Mall created The Richter Place where he referred to a mode of metamorphosis as “The Crystalization Process” in his discussion of one Dr. Idylanger. I am interested in organizing a group art show which revolves around this theme. If anyone is interested, or if anyone has ideas of example concerning the Crystalization Process, in light of Kelly Mall’s larger meta-narrative of Amnesia, please add to the discussion, or contact me.


    IMAGE ONTOLOGY

    Thanatopaeia:

    Filed under: — site admin @ 4:51 pm

    A verse documentary by chris robideaux.

    O fertile mind! Boundless Universe!

    -Rimbaud, Les Illuminations

    O Justice! Go, be manifest! Stalk him, drive the sword you carry deep in his throat, clear through!

    -Euripides, The Bacchae

    The Cantos

    i

    Heraldic, yes! Steer but only as the Sun our dear one refinable, over definable map of Dubium does if declines to give officialdom heed or line reel small measure in cups rounded as a lightning ball winefull > Quick! Give me Hermes’ shoes! Mercury does. Blaze you, fire, be it done. Quirk week, try Cain again, all my dopamine goes + hate-love notations assay the Sun as a steeper much the soul.
    Various Croatoans do, but yes I’m yes-addicted, crevatted epidermal dusk I went to seal the deal w/ a night-drink bobbed w/ the rest steely a night. Cudgelquestion? Bee-shares are you hiding? Innocence only can and does in all my alleys, wanna see? Become a dancechrist w/ me, hoverlumps. We’reallit, all Sam-lingered for the urban-bell sought in the bloodfields, head-pattern of years forked imblime directive actual…- “I’ll get you sideways yon grim forker of life!”
    lowered, can you? Grubbing can, if let pig in & if not, raise. Allez vous! “Apologize intelligentsia no utter tongue under our scripts or camerawaves!” Dentarians hide where meat does, and complain, flop there away from human bustle. Mojo enclosed paradigm lunchers what have you inveighed easily? Dude, you could fly! Hesiod’s why + I came to modern scapulous age-end-da by way of flutterances in somebody’s sex so now all a-crave I go, Atropos snipping, leaving his clips on my desert floor w/ more needles at the year-picnic. crimp yr north anchors + wedge samaritain up so’s he’s a forest kisser cha cha shingles in my beta comfort of metanormal sleep pa(i)nting. Outward bingers have read your months, have you? Has____ booked you, song kicker?; something again on the-
    move in me, my own disease, oak of youth stills middays sometimes airport fruit arrives to tell a banal tale stand by your actuary does mule you for the smiling lesser of what sky built thing? Markets agitate lightning shoes what sells because scented rot curled our homes outlawed sued to get to grass easily village bridge. heartleaps alltheway to where they sell everything & tell me in years what months mean frontal disease turn pillar of vision into pickpocket god overseeing a wish you miss a wish exhumed most Shazam of oil quested dumplings storehouse
    Pride pump! I don’t like bondage exercises to presume yr pain but hear I stay ‘cause heart is too walled I simply camper the results snatched my summers w/ blond fire of escape moons. Terrible divulger, motor-rinse my out-being but don’t blood-out the scene, turn TV to death. On the leading edge of false hope here of death Indian where white man stopped, sank in. King James-a-lot, James’ lot orgies whimper us back to urge mostnatural pipeline needs in to bumber smoke the car-day with minimal effort, don’t worry forests will hold out.
    Back to monkey your gun pull in the arteries of “sieve-ill-ized” action
    You a counted one were nature not lost, cowboy of comfort, rock sore eyes.
    Don’t you know a hewn gem? Stipend augur anomalous peal prophecy & get
    egg-life into stabbed seasons. Vent of a charged rib, alleys of most truth
    stifled rich shifter as lost so where’s ah we the sun is of a back worship in the
    billions (war(e) ship bill I thin son) Share an atom trident of suffrage / new
    generations spoilt left w/ a lowbrow look / when know you a better, please
    sing the song out. Standing options wrong of a grizzled seal great bike of
    overlapping skin, seal of street says come mordant organ huff a flair across America.
    Goldenly, can’t you. Please, bluefinger, dance, and – where’d you get that ink & fire? We all have a shifting hat, backlit baroque or say red things. Planet sets the motion, built other days you have . coo comet coo (planed babies) & if ever the effort wastes clock-ancestors we will still drive the ice toward our convenience.
    sound web chattelain overempired, oversaid. Standdown! Is tv dead yet?
    Best Elvis did. Interrupt (don’t) my island, eh? Probe dice for diamonds, I want lust cash for mini-king all power we want – no, ever the curlrider tommer tails – Circle, yr experiment wanders. Husk cavity of milk warmers came to be a man, behold the ring of life & have things. Aye, I’m stopping the money-hawk from diving, just a day give me and our purple efforts’ stump.

    Whoever service of great clamp benign wishful symbol make the brain-stamp drive. But of what said urge the monk. Astral evers. Cord of winters and the weatherrose camphored my sides. come for alive & swept up machines w/ one side simpering one side rigged happen ashen more and more the years, peeling th’paint. Oftener a hate-scuttled eye went landing the afternoon of the age.

    ii

    Belle epoch no adjutant, sing! (is my soul over the edge I said to the debate heaters who lift the sedge) of lift-instances yarned, would it all be better. who could have leaved in the send of Siberia wing of cardinals (bird only) for a web mess they’re dusting us. Astounding fang of history founder of sex cults writing religion I take pabulumbrage and de-deify you, Oz! Clues conundrum index of cost speeches connote floor of death’s lub, whereon we cast a cold eye. ooh this late February jounced and fevered up a jotty lunge I pallored an uneasy animal (me, anime) in strange sac of existence, socked the easy line and fished me up boat into where not even I flipped but quietly gasped slow hells of skewered breath (many sate-ill-lights) abnormal mind-plunge, wow the route – what makes both brave, great, awaystaying, what culture (cult-your) of death have we come to, nazi cockroach? Survival means final solution again? slow this time? subliminal limbic runic tubs of bleached time to perfect perfect (v.,adj.) viral tunic “scar inside human corps(e) of dance scorning us.”

    ruddily, readily, scans storm in, even storm-scams weather certainly yoked by you-know-who now they swallowed Russia for bits of continuum control – bankers! Jew inventors! (Old Judea Khazarian mortific Zionists Mossad Rockefeller-Bush quadrant dystopic dyspeptic satanic – unseemly not the word – what is tell the herd.) vest of bombs hangnailing the koan man, woman, child to seem superior, contrite then firm in aggregate owned press by same assassins conform badge of senior time play and fishhook bodies unawares, so where – -? Oh where is thy provisional god manmade god the old of frayed telling if so by their old shepherd’s eclogue-ical pens??? Anyoneofus w/ logic hold cuts right thru like tankers speed embroil fuel war (fake) to stir up profits rhetoric at home yankee doodle when boycotting –merry-up-the-way on bicycles Chinese-like we very should go!! Implicit crumble standard oil to ground verify oily scoundrels are running bad puppet show of murder tear these jerkwaters down – from Starbuck’s window I seed the irony, I know,
    but –

    1. traffic must merge, and merge it will.
    2. reductive forest policies die as we construct from our waste, sunuse. New babies know this.
    3. rich put up or shut up test them for heart, soul, no option, how gains?

    Conservative with compassion, bushlizard, and back to rock lizard must go. upheaval crime show prime time glow prime numbers fleet and flow sad of course – belly dragon could have fruit feasted instead galling and trepanning man burnt for evilancient…Why? Tiamat? Marduk? Isis? Zeus? I am a patriot for the realflying gods of revelatory humanlove. Or, are we really slaves of slaves of slaves? How many epochal volumes beastwise came and came, breathed flame upon flame? Whose real con-cockshun? Is suicide justified? How in this heavy mess got? Do we re-diversify or clean the gene pool / after sex parents not enough / to give the nod? Why, what would? Why a pagan, calm in his beliefs? Why a Buddhist, unwavering, unflinching, burning in bliss search each sticking to theirs – A: for, personal truth has no higher command. K. James was an illuminati fool too. In his own court his name to a pope-tome for the eject of Protestant resaying and they no like edits to be left behind the one book never burnt sanctified / snuff heretics out beastlike holy say top heretics lurk. Easy to see restless breath of mankind WILL end up stemming the black wave, should the new light believed be. Come along, just. Cosmic party. absolutely the soul no real upper web have but right-of-way in cosmogenesis if he believing he does tao of selfenhancing soul. Which is to say then, for all souls we have all souls’ day a real treat if not spooked & don’t be – a celebration for earth and hers out in the new leaves a dance Samhain out in the frail colors of summerdeath to say “aha!” something does go on, in passing, the suns of all galaxies! Light of souls rising! Rippling dance of the unconquered where hymns are choice of life say a soul up.

    Hurry home to eat bread & circuses highway Bactrium of consent for the snakes to enpedophile the world, turn back on the us they cogitate.
    Maimonides, Arimathea? w/ Christ are hands just too tied to not make planes blow into buildings on our bulk isle of maximums? I scan the world-plane for knowing & find completeness none. Asterisk by race. Footnote to Adam – these are goldslaves? I will not suffer the fools and gladly the bastards – ill-lumin-not-he trash to think so. Do not shirk the blowsy cheek of day to mustachio a closed system! By that I mean threat-free get out on the trees and sing the day hymns!

    iii

    Put a nautilus in the white house of white hope and love and make the current one a sad defiled putative memory scab! Defame no! Let high grow the wildflower whence dens of iniquity go! Let basalt of passion dream + no dreary word go forth (but to fix & show) a scabbard inky battering ram of our voices doing it in…
    For karma-stealing dog men wars are all dirty disgrace from deepest metaphor for loss. Let the gentle breast come up from those preternatural depths again! Venus! Take poison nettles to these herr runners of nazi-poke sloughs! Crown the troupe of innocents w/ floral anti-reticence! Tyrants defaced blackfaced as pitch and into sea for the krakens. Poseidon send to D.C. to do natural justice to demons. Unelected! Brawn of arrogance, downers, all!

    If there’s a justice let it not be forestalled >> void: into and back from to and fro black tooth. Of spheric sliders remain left to hurry back to the palace of doubt. Could you emit such a song to flout? Les fleurs du mal wilting could now be, but our heralder even more visible, even in his day! Oy, yea! Scones but that’s how a poet noses his soul’s world and retires on a bloody deep pen. For him not these laws or commands. ‘tis more suffering than apostolic hell to live another way, so – “whatever afterlife or me after what I’ve achieved!” Turn worldsoul around, no matter what quotidian burns rake. Why evil hides. Not this collar!

    Live by what salvation may be and you’ll be studdering all the way! No meatloaf in purgatory, Johnny! Just territories. Hot of. Ought blend and solve unified field in a dream begin sanctuary where February leaves off stoking universal fire-wheel w/ formula of constants, semi-constants:
    C (overall energy value of cause-and-effect universe)
    E (= overall force of all, enumerated to sig. proportions of entropy
    Vs. pragmatic appliqué z of all things e.g.)
    Ce +or- z = A(n) (A=all) 2 kinds all: actual, dreamed.

    enddetails from mathematical/poetical dream, though shaky, stand through. Feeling of coming up with m-quotient for the self-appropriated substance and aim of all the seen and unseen would I unpack like a whore all my war(e)s ? Days are slurry and sometimes incomprehensible pets, eh? A weather-stable for our gears and aging goes and goes out of check since eyes are unshuffled deck of strange Tarot protrudes invisibly wherever you go, but at times middling fixtures, textures, mind-mad sun-gaze sea.

    A difference of vision gores an empire at edge of, dissolution snores, prompting sons of re-hewn resolution to trot sophistry, say and philosophistication (fist-a-quay-shun?) a partle neon, garbage signs of stupidified consent for stupidification (?!?) great at last this is a feeling of hollow wells last of the barren trees in their oversold fleet ? grumblings of how 2 trim human tree or wealth off, its minority of brambles, and – “cut off at the base, burn through at the root, keep heaping.”
    So, who the great attender be? Oh, if I could act as removed own best friend, to apply an aesthetic heaven to this apex of loss and choice, then what? What holds it be, that we may then not know it, and do? (The sun is my silent god now, now. At least real warmth and that is my relevant relation. Sun on my slanted cheek, chestnut hair enough of god – indeed, never a shadow of itself! Which I will need as an I to feel real for a few more engines and “This is what a ghost must feel like” thought I as I wandered a today, tho’ everything was a should be as – twining of the weeks and my needs was off, though, ‘n I needed to be swept away as never before to the pre-self instead stranded on same old island almost ancient and misunderstanding and rapidity, capacity (cap a city?) for a knowing of All a blurry imperfect maze rattled & made sway even as crimson sunset bloomed a rapid fall over all the earth, leaving the repository of knowledge w/ my captives.

    iv

    Nothing a little wine couldn’t repair //ha ha god whipussomemore, for I smell bad papillaries grinding edges; grid hostile but I like a pen I can just snap into place and anyway who isn’t the seed / reserves, oh well science, wall of reversal, said:

    -when you were lightning what did Olympus sound like?
    -out of what clay a you formed?

    vampire pining for lost blood the days count us her cronies hit the stock empire lusters the secret bondage masters of bone, priest said, “open my cloak, and it will open you, boy…” and no secret is forever kept no evil forever good parader… sinuous breviosity, this universe is lopsided and equal shares suck and shine colloquial grimoire palatable, rise on ash, modern omniscient to ground better flatters & vents the papered continents of gas ride. More to the may, bedimmed – exit on a flaming stallion & search meadows for years for your violet of ecstasy & flurry joy, fury upon pitter-patter, ears all scattered (whoops) I did it again secret reason eagle emblem of dictator paradigms: swooper of prey requires no predator, seek votes from carrion, though, high evil smell of 1871 takeover of banks hitler & bush vow together, honeymooning in Vegas & Times Square to flatter a spade. A (a)… tortion of abnormal hearts mottled screamed up one more rabid decade squander as quick flush, drip distend as fast a furion of lips cold excuse covert hips lawn minutiae eagle of prey your summers disturbed by Rockefeller lisp standard oil soup nazi blaze find the sheltered and rout. Out! Out! divine rebellion squelched (raped, in all honesty) ashfellow croakery guest vamp, give me your endural, lover suck my deed, give dreams to my lips / ensure dire robberies in the safehouse of passions hotter when robbed, my heart w/ welts knows.

    There is an ancient, hidden lake, high in the mountains of my future I can turn to shall I wander the earth like an amnesiac cloud. Strutted. Start seminaries of the New Word & clash softly with other knowers colored serenely but with eyes out for ones like me finally having straightened out my power, afraid as I was of it, and “it shall devastate.” Blue maiden of yesteryear continents, here, sip from my chalice and say to me all of it. To drink down the chordic strands of life’s interior mirths; to roll back law until we jointly believe again in life – get society down to one law! : Harmless of life, cast thyself the best lived dream.
    Like that? ‘tis my own synchronascent belle font sky diving, bloodless things cannot know the obscure cities I absorbed, & the stray devils I turned. Declare the obsequious day (insobrave as a foliage starts) to be a liar? It did same routine as’t did one day in the time of the gygants.

    Loosed for. Titans. How feral, this! No time for judges, but…tick tick tick fade nightwise (mind’s a mate) from sun myths, oh one god! Offal of blazes entire, mingle. Sup. Freeze. Install the queer soul of travel-desire. Technocratic knells, maze of knees, the meanings are mad bees in the tree of my mind / yes where lakes devoured my body of birth yes where I smelt life advancing, open empires shed & the western dream in the mothflitted night / naturefalling out in form of odd pinecone, grandfilial domain. C’est le mort combien avec le beau lux upshedders draw / approach of more outdoor hours pitches an angled moon in sky’s crown for gibbous ends and waxing all, we dare kick up the dustless air for camera and for spring’s newest labours……………………………………………………
    I eye my faux sons and me freeballing in the courtyard where no sparrow’s sonata (Athene’s anime) yet increases the show of turf and collapsible dwellings in the forced year which sifts droningly.

    Vehicles of saying and of waste clash hornily in extropic din for the spoils of an upsold Hesperides on the ropes and rails and rack of a mid-winter course of attack! – oogle the absentee horses of the windless portrait, pile seconds on the grease-plate of our years and heart, and sin loud, over the traffic and far away…sinless hours crescendo-ing into the ecstasy of Xbalba & ruinous walks overtaken, stopped before feet of consent, of dubium as it posts our messages / toilet wrap birdcage lining papers manual propagandamnation wends an industrious morning man to bump our door in the witching hour.

    v

    spook-hump, spoiler-mad, he obvious, turn supplicant mephisto murk on table lurks. Should? Framers. Greece still in the sun stays with her bleached homes + a string of boats along drunken shores ‘n ample tongue of shade. Talisman B.C. start lump of admiring peripatetics should Socrates have sumped the sea. (salutational) Sundays for Uranus gain solidarity, partitions of dust, aeons lining up swim for summering, & something said, “thanatopaeia.” Wretched offal can’t divine this! Life is a fuckroll, death is a way. But I bray my life to the living. Living epitaph: records whispers, laughs at death, laughing. callow strafe of nothingness in the heart chambers. On the heart. Winter hanging on like a mongrel! Astarte! Perseus! Come. A back-through time I thumb – nov 30- blue 2002 end “of nods, in perpetuum crease knot or spike for my node and become my mode by finding a specialty among rats <> what will cure our spats, lover?” Or all of them, for that – seigniorial rocket ship of my fulsome desires flows, gets out to the stars, and it’s about time…….. my blood leaves its name on this world, ails because we are sane in the midst of satans hurled, aching November shadows convene a bribed freedom’s hallowed my shattered bones’ temple, my fever reddens thru rigor’s sound. A no-man’s land of rare meaningful diseases and fevers around, carrying on, what sticks in the teeth, what’s always there, or curry up some care by way of someone way up there who sees my tiny candle lit.
    scores of easy continents later, I learned what truly bird-vented nature’s glory, rage, caused cob of denial to lie, unstuck the needle in god’s eye, spirited my ague away (applause.) if you no mail to shift, heft walls inverse color sometimes the un-color is a blast. For you know black like a baby before the v.-adj.-inal stream put him down the scree. Chowing on the shire was. Oh boats him in on sun water bone strands. If we ever. One of his sayings, fuming, came roiling out: Preface to Tyrannus is a scold-the-old-way-bring-the-new proem. How. Says it’s a fiber of long essay to ape new forms put in, but. Sing anyway:

    First, the beast –
    Tyrannus o’er us wrecks.
    Tyrannus the dead-soul maneater, manned. Tyrannus dragon of false kings made.
    Tyrannus sets men on guilty strings, thing, eater of air, belcher of poisons – great provocateur, slayer of the provoked, one less star reflected.
    Tyrannus the harsh-lit offices where we requisition the excuses for our being.
    Tyrannus unsleeping pretender-human who goads out a long line of the depraved and destitute,
    Tyrannus blocking out the sun, serving notice on his chosen responsible for blockage,
    Tyrannus, arranger and re-arranger of whole kingdoms, peoples, whose klaxon bears the symbol of great eye and gold!
    Tyrannus! Ungodly fire!
    Tyrannus! Vampire! Hoaxer! (Caligula : if all of____ one neck had, I’d cut and not stop…)
    Tyrannus, dead before the holy moan of moon, and marked dead as –
    (hoard because you are revulsion, sickness itself, your own hell-fire and we shall uprise to quit handgreasing golddusting fattening up on fattening and end you.)

    Tyrannus, sunny rat will know: what drives the unnatural snow, the wind that never ceases to blow, what grieves the good man in his ardent hours –
    (scurrilous whore of the world, whom the virgin-mother has heard, rise above your life of death, soar above your static cleft;)
    Tear annus, annuit coeptis linking them black thread each one sold their brains to power stables, selling very onerous fun – Tireseus! Wise and blind, sees all! But we put our wise men behind the wall along with mongrels they have no need for. Give us teams, score for score dispute of legal truth is a blade as it / bankrupts the small as they unblind the whore.
    Of liberty, justice –
    The foul scent of greenbacks stirs her/his loins. Comparable reductive in poetic fashion, earthly friend…

    Humanus!
    Humanus, delecter of muses short of fire in the breach brightening cities, sons and sons, blood and blood, born to bruise? In Tyrannus-built frenzy –
    Of wars not ended, not ever, only interstices to balm and count –
    Humanus includes desire and an art to his suffering, obsequious death-prepared snort w/ caverns of promise, needing dark to suffice for light to come as hero in our requisite doubt –
    Humanus, you may screamandshout you may devise a course of devilry for the afterdeath, angels harrowing your hours, needful demons procuring the soured – a whole rectory of devised and chorused, throng unnoticed, but – “tell us not what to obey” – a consensus that unrounds gift of Moses.
    Humanus, virus-fed, ground down gold teeth, extinguisher, anguisher, zeitgeist merefallen punked and misled industrial (Indus Trial?) clankering, cantankering, cavernous, vernal again…
    “Well, this is a clickety-clack disaster ship. Stifled seasons for less, I have,” says the Lethean boatswain to distant captain, who runs and urns us headlong ice and sea and shore of bottom earth, it now a century of self upon self, every one running hard angrybreath to kill w/ ambition, lodge in her breast. Offered intuity iniquity panned for the fallow-fellow absolute monster that robed ringers sell…best move thyself to more meaningful churches – theatres, orgies pray don’t fall for ancient pratfall.
    Sumerian and Tigristle cities’ first dressers scanned a junket of sport-slave and canals kept watering up the yield and crescento moon a pre-scythe of science and they swooned they did not so long ago.

    vi

    Sibyl went the day ‘fore I did, the very nicked bare of caution’s rabbit, but sped anyhow the dark town losing spittle crack the force lounging riddle of hypo-need battery juice went shlug-mix w/ other corrosives, corrode life and here a meth-mouth make a diddle-diddle hidey-ho, a news day. I crammed around in the get, fudged a miracle by implosion and ate again so iffy this flesh as Shiva snorts where old princes sleeved, but tagged an edge said: wily wise cat eyes square illusion (ill use ion) of night, prepared, my pleasure’s out – sure, created. Fill on by, for I knew you, stranger I warned w/ shut eyes. Just get me home denuded I’ll stalwart box yet in my shadow-cave make for Phoenix in summer like Rimbaud to Afrique pleasures in the hot dust hot and then, as he had, said he hell / this is he my other soul I have a France too in my blood our villages, visions, close in aptitude (apt etude) can gay be and not have stigma semantics for transom whistle-do and motherboard the train, wiry space now where we do it, poets used to go-go out but terror’s cloud puts a heartspook to the crasher’s book, smiles & all. I shoot myself from this canon each day, I am the infamous jumping man of the cirque in the deep mirror of truth which has as many sides as planet has granules. Ampere the mores quaff insist I deed. Staff of bier raised or did wine red as blood night last to say elegantly baby is blest be and could the Egyptians have hoped for very more? If day of machine-gun boys kill their center of learning, machines fly inflammable into towering honeycomb, they aught would speak once the honey dropped. Can if did Elysium cache rankle the above abstemious harrower in scarybook of backstory, blind, obviously, to overlaw stiflization we now a mess-in approbious. Can a liker know easy rivers ‘midst this in a spew town then?
    for art sat her down as papulist, a purple vision tall she, and plopped right down right in the eye of. Books. for we come spattered to un-etch the body of dirt precipitous outside, hallucinate a kiss shan’t we idiot it was a book turned I no woman there was no kiss enervated a people. Stick one person by a phone’s future window right here I’m preponderous official hinder no sight if you the angelus wings beheld then screw down tight balloons of wonder say the sight could un-cross yr religion—- a down-me but I’m far better inelective a triad of bone sempter how regalus you have for I boycotting all but the satisfaction of the soul here rising a song again {I can build a sky can you I often read away the seasons while one churlish of them represents girl brat of things} child chancellor on toes many multiples as many myths as stars count ye yr prayers, count baffledhair. Oft traveled me a bee-year ultra meadow Europe said I what others girls some sleep round pop awake extract careless joy upruffles a sky sadly discordant…jewelry not my cars roar & the built thing mungles a bunt fear delay so you metanaut broke it/ I of the ice don’t/ Escher snakes wound up, wounded no one cares, fistula of advice – care on hard feet coins want I walk & walk what of future skeletons all we a proud my lust camphor denies rail of subduction if corolla of path then stop and mendicate tramp evil of lofts Kristallnacht reboil if hymns break the darker sun – loose image collective head miracle flight a burn into twins we see locked many angles camera set to downtwist- read Icke- much more to figure our beliefs squandered, owned by media monopoly can you fanatical customer insanity own? Once a mesa far yr dance get out soul I bewared got me nowhere I really do sun-in-heart voca royal in me seary joy lift scorn of world-heap why children I no brought in inflate my heart… zero is a lust too lust not to quantify what is this yr eyesmind say heap of words lost of their music I say, no – there’s too much and nothing – a fair field’s sea in which a diver enlists a liquid of all atoms interior nothing spake everything said.
    vii

    Hockey of evilnoise to enbreal certain cattlers, callers indeed cirque fault line bred daughters of freeway sons busting would palms doty headdress regale sun-belief? Mistral of style saps asking doves to march. Midnight the line oeuvre sap list lost but heart what you are – zebra billions tanks oil last growing thing you see can a tiny true under glass UV silent grant as stretts employ my soul. Father handless god or retreat I no mind, make my afterlife – to what I am & not a follower-heaven. This I may get / stones or stoned day zipper might lowered it & she rosy kissed a hot bloom for the breathing each sumpter a Mars to an Earth. Ultima Rule forget believe over squad of impetuous angels rare a dot heard, backfire seen. Medium inland still. Pine up & without any human steal my stare. Rocket system shattered complete a rife porter quell zealot roseate oh! I recall Spring dusky her pilot was too much in book, sorry mama – my way is this over-machine of separate eyes.
    Calloph a tooth obelisk occult empire <>boasts best you born but I’m that pitiable chinaman now, Yangtze flood of wisdom parabolic earthturns. I hid a backway resultant wise, Reisling ding my bells Apollo expanding still wordhip softly state of my innate art send crashers away. City-faun ah best stroke yr Pollock expression tore through what are you doing adoring this? Foam form deduce splitting aside athwart evergreen ship middle beam of ardor our nights darker border life a cusp son daring the lines blur again for a dash of heartbreak he cupped dawn / reasons for head a path made his own python & his sister Hera moved the wheel & Leda fawned blue jay summers aloft boy stillwarmed offered north lakes sun upstroke apotheosis burn high mornings did dash down leapt splash dull aquamarine water carried midst a nook the pollen of remembrance. Dash you did too! when Helen’s caustic mount severed its crown and bore an Ashtar hyperboreal leveled massive loam in boomcough & started myth wheel rolling a boy volcanic stomp-stood undid the blue beds of morning Harry Truman waited let Ashtar vengeant take him. Saturn winked astral a solid such of goldenrod dangling did a universe arise??? Tropped & licked the early existence did foresworn forewarned but a peer of bathos did earn clock seasons of mirth heart hurt boy at fifteen devoured loss too young portioned & like the high pines bore light on his needles sometimes to earth slipped could you envelop each day push from then a pearl or peal out a Barbary living but a fine soul against ceiling glass flitted monstrage soft with – family eject this montage too much art querulous. make a good way hope see you at top I see not so – aria da capo – furtive festive pineal for armour had his dance met souls whose miss is this nonsense young a silicon breath of a century host of murmurs strike crave what must come to for newage relevantly slate night.

    So for the heights, music. a parallel scintilla wrathless let birds make you rise too – early river park sun your soul’s movement, and – who Verlaine mine be? When, of all comforts, to know? thane of dance or Cawdor who consumes misery’s miracle or punched best back holy devils if strange be the wisp of caution? Bread lays or dance crucifiction dance wine my best part in uncrucify all of them brisk patterns mobilia caterwaul great caterwaul of China molds modes a primal mix verified sans command & oh the grass was high no lid on this nature who caught in my sails lunged with me to assail the mobwork castrating family of Sun. expunge Bolshevik porch on history, mastery, say Darwin, Marx explain the moon say Paris Review get new & with or look at what a revolution is get on-line or get off heave many webs, rainbows into the curled afternoon – barge of moments, strength on the sea strength is mine this monad me stroke astral events gas pearl of vacuum primus logos one cosmic IT order rational? Means to divide & are we now so divided as to very question the a-tom? Sent questions since Los Alamos to make irrational the world by way of unnatural winds – Opp. – “I am become death, destroyer of…” his son fell at the window or bat where things hide in what fiery field, overrode elbow of the strident earth a come-by a sold property thing elippsus Romeo a very doubtful prospect re-secure biostasis this much is seen.

    viii

    On the edge of a lifetime impervious to daysclaw through the furies and furious sent I redwhipped into the scald of air winsome on the walkcourse meditative inspire ring me to the truth of my holdover youth…to Man, heaping my obvious traits to no one but the walking wind, I yelled Hera, fates, make my stars come true & me true my aims due………………………………………………..
    Spark flagella evening snowward zoomfuture body atoming, rig this inconstant, give me leave trust the snow will, this late cast of frost. Caste? Musevening kalends late to the ideas…the wind made snow…Or the ides. for emulation curve a staircase up for thoughts…could then suf-fear-ing away??? What whelps this pain what cover what land what lover athwart mored <> or, the age, in need of a few good plays, arias, and storms, needed the chancre of a heartless whim to scratch the score onto transplanted eyes…Or Ishtar, and the crescentmooned east, bodhidharma, the treeoflife, the beast all in a sweeping chorus line, singing “That’s Entertaaaeeaaainment!” (feel of stealth, compare! I walked right through with a wealth arboreal. Sting of earth this far / bleeds existence to have stayed shreve pinafours oft left to heal alone, please do. Frayed spokes of El Mohommedean phrasal pharisaical ancient tide of self-swallowing kingdoms) massive cleft afire, this was. Encyclopaedic envelope endeavored with thick carapace immediate solarama engine lifting future breezes through my desert self, once of you, tang. I breathed those gropes long afore. Wallop! Trap! Scold! Welter! (the terrormine sired a slit, a gang a range, an old rage, gammas of a sort guile milers: a comb, earthers, lightning, stokes, carriage-smooth – she and I hiked with plans. Perks terrific, oh objet d’chartreuse rose certain chrysanthemums of morning’s bright summer saying. Could you. Minion’s homage. Feed, rest, feed. Bone orb gather valise, guitar, complete. Laughing princes meant ‘blog avocado. Makes preening value. If someday forests called – the mystery mushroom springing, Idaho’s spirit lakes iridescent calm damp noise very north, quite north….and what dearth or sale readify? Lucks of what bought you? Your sound soul heavy with pine? Said to the stones? Say in your zeal, gun at own head or stuck in skin to do the tooth of dread walk you must go. Great seal of all things! Powers. Choice. Skin. A millennium barreling. Presser. A morning I choiced did the humidity make stick the lights? Moreover, do stars fight, fake, and stir? Ones in space. Fleet of bones stored up for my piano key memories; invarious ends delete alpen oftenals. Crumbed. Swear soil, Odin drummed up the very earth, the myth hammered, the sleeting soil-men warring or did Zeus? When comers go…the plinth the night sector coven of fuel. Probe life more. A freel noon enemy could make you. Better my youth or other on Lake Como heart or a lectern…poet atheists nooning, luncheoning to Romance’s age. Fevers allayed. Tender. Moss, gale, Gibraltar, pillars beyond which, Neptune knows, and does. We stepped through with guns, sails, & goldlust. Never stopped. Flourish on redundant zag avenues do? Heart wants an auction for you. Great ball of dreams, I longed! Winters did you tag, drag last of youth Nord, wavering fires, sad years done, what’s rotten in Denmark now?
    Fetters, shapes, et al…

    Done, fiasco harpy. Slut of hampering sold her story rights to pointless vagary. Who waved a fiendish flight to end in palms, oh jackhammer of soul?
    Oh sold, oh sold. Did it get retold? On and old. Preen of deep, deep seas. Viridian and old, a ways with blue Neptune seize. Often your myth was courage to think in a blue way. Cycles. Now an urge to other tongues speak in. (Pilot of your own, tramp! Night!) I can’t see Mars from here and I did swerve my golden ear. All bodies heaped, heaping through. On, oh yes, to violet seeing. Vest safe? Blowing sun, bargain with blue, loved all your green: many more hues. Who would you. Buoyant brackets. If I could. (You did see thee, the quiet sky?) Atom Apollo scan the wild years for days. Sting-surge. Taxonomy. Vivid brain of place (if your vexers stood and could see their prey) nimble devil-dream, be a child. If $* maker made then vote your pig in and hush.
    Hump-fury. Lush emerald silk, high satellites, ropes, strands of summer beach us… good tool of your epicurean cure-alls: teas, oils, fervor. Had-all. Seas. Purge. Solo. Could fire. We step on the backs of our fathers as they make us to go. But…North, quite north. Bless this aspiring eagle, gaping with feathery blood. Hunger oils the bread of complexity I fashion. Anchor w/ wings sprouts up in the storm ; today there are wide capacities, cloud like a dark Mongol w/ silver fluttered beard bore down across these tufts of rankness.
    Lofts crimed, as below, sure crop stained, a boil, a flange, a how-hatted bully to put lockdown on any (as the hypemills lay ruin) As a swerve, secular, cats know. Astrally, I know. The dream procured its stealthy dove & the “perfect” world gleamed and went out. Experience riled silos w/ the right hedges, gifted – oratorios, orgies, sensational slobs. (Mine’s this private job) The right talisman plucked, revered, each vow a term for clarity, where we rowed, round the meanings mirrored for minds.

    ix

    A colophon – few the range could doubt then make mountains! But the buoyant sky sees more. (pledge-fucked, pharmaceutical control) Singapore: a doubt-flight, bandage a cough, German quarantine. New Yorker? Is it a would of humane to free roam, then knock down? Cover utter bland ocarina so spellful winds my last sleep w/ exotic tenders.
    “Free pain up,” that’s a mouth. When we reach those continents, worlds, star-years, children we are w/ worn out coats. The species. Would yr wrath warp it down nicely? Attack, and heal system? Be real. The colored earth, Gaia, my lover, with battles, tangled hair – help, says she – help me be, get these fleas off me…can said fire shake the swarm?? Lofty bee a haggard mile creeps, the politician, creep of the free-standing world. As of hair enlist war-woven style of dread, clear your finger, found the duodenum of stomacher owned rothschild-genocide fandango souls heavily dancing it down save enough.

    Ah, other operatics, gy(m)nastics where is yr hidden fish of fantasy, Welsh bride of fancy, bred on escape-lines where poets fled, stirring the real toward the finer earth…I supped a greal of starts, which stained my heart w/ the sigh of Cassandra. But Medea would dry up the earth to move her lover to mirth! (Constellated, still.) Sea-borne but I landed here. “Off with your flags, you dissenters of the Way!” the old god screamed, Lot’s wife still salts the rims of sultanic grails. They’re fixing a vengeant paradise there, in the old crescented desert.

    “Stay in your official acropolis whether doom or not, boy,” the dryad spoke…hover, the pack of tvs, tard of longing, reason, dead loins the package crave…but if you stole. Say then your bituminous heart thickened. Crowing gale. Overworn rags of dead fashion, but the sunsets yawn. Top of lays, still to the inevitable crimsons, when I summoned those yards. Schoolday miracles, bright green meadows of grass point seaward, sunward, anything but human…and then you limbed everything, built a limbo, and we swayed, bent: sufferain, suzerain, colt or rearward pony painted should I have? Ridden in on. Cloister of proposed recalls: summon the aggregarious chimera whose morphing heals. Cars that indeed DO tragedy as they burn burn burn. Could hail potentate summer of hearts parasitic, parastatic, plunge the blood for errors! Soft lovesmith, this is the curl! The day! Us, not out of step, w/ gamboled loins. Shred, and then the rubric flirt. Dig lines? Mostly flawed ghosts stay to ju ju our flexible years. Or speak to them. Serrated evil fu unrevealed. Displaysures,
    and this dessicating fever that helps blot the night fights on.

    Did bread taste me (?) I pet the dream sun drops like a plasma balloon over boy-heaps of mind, spindle the problem of cars seemingly to call Mars, the way, the dead-red of things…New York new quark new sinew ark temple of bridling discoveries I packed only the summers that smiled + sung & that’s all I could see. I call a flower to ride Iberia by – cauliflower tried I beery-a-bye – obstreporia purchase – If night had no lover, Cassandra her heart back, Medea move without black moves…a spite for fevers raised would a truncheon make bright. Now, a bronze soul paroles the languor of weathered years. Rise, brave apes, who’ve risen, for the sun does.

    Mathema tics. Mathema writhes. Mathema hides. Mathema tries. When in the rock of youth…sock of the habitué, the delighted ex tempore philosopher. Mad with the holography of the fractal seasons,… encroachingly adept at sun-soaked concept…High, basking in the boudoirs of royale gentility, Lairs, chambers, nests, alluvial peasantry… whom moves, this feudalism dying. Martyred? Festival-soothing skies of a youth sacrificed to 21. years & centuries; scoundrel, yon ultra-wealth hiring, firing atmospheres of “holy death.”

    This is come upon the aperture of grace!

    Glyphs of hospitable ancient precipices: city-states I could consult, who may console the daring sky to form a kind of dance.
    Orpheus: I glance at my Euryidice all I want now.
    Eurydice: The bale of magic high golden worlds.
    Or suited Celtic Patrick the saint 432 AD signified gogettum Ireland in the divine spring green glow e’en if the Rubicon is crossed, his day March knows.

    3.18.03 14:00 hrs. PSD time the pearl came out called: Solaraphon.

    The sun in my ear, with gaseous tonnage wastes nothing;
    The derelict season denies being quaffed by might of spring.
    The maidenhold is weak! The buds of promise barely bump –
    Only Apollo charioted gold allowed to speak!
    The false furies of rich forests make stumps.

    The sun warms my ear, my innards grief’s ribbon –
    How easily the ponds of madness do flow;
    I’ve stopped, it seems, for the light brigade again;
    The wrong kind of stoppage, yes, still feeds the crows.
    The fields of waste still grow the stools!
    But for clowns and strumpets and fools…

    The sun in my ear whorls heat to my soul;
    Invents me a reason banal moments sow,
    Even then a bounty of visions, paused thus,
    Where’s the cure-rain, O Zeus, Rhea, Prometheus?
    Where the dark dubium, the oil-drunk rich-mad now?

    The colophon of the world-book shows not this foul,
    And why? Why, we all must ask, the planet-prison we
    Build. Wherefore shall we go, e’en as the world-prince
    Enhorrors the streets? The virulent borders shan’t keep
    A-one out. Those who must will go.

    I heard a magpie gloriously ringing;
    Head of wing and wings upflit,
    I heard a magpie sonorously reaping
    Eyes of black the shine still get…

    x

    The calm clam clamored for clarity once again, near the palace of the wolf. Great things ceded, were lost, then gallomphed adroitly across the tottering day, nevermore to be cloud-lambs again. What did I think? What did I do? In those terrible months of sanctioning my delirious fantasies? The goalposts of luxury kept of slothful deceit more and more smelling; something I could not inside me control which seemed bent on making a knife-edge of personae, its gifted hellous home. What prize came after the long echo-chamber nights of serious recompense? Nothing. A blacksmith’s anvil from the dirty past dropped in my lap, a caustic excuse to sunbathe fiercely at night in the moon’s clever facsimile. A wild whip of needless frenzy! The product of aimless rage, wordless fears – stacked on each other like ghetto Jews, utterless in their piles, of horror supreme.

    Ennui! Ennui!
    Indecision and stupidity! (repeat ‘til sun’s down)

    “But only for a moment I saw, and thought I could unhinge all laws.”

    Ah, Perceptae. Start a new day. Even sunny moondays creep along, a world of guilt on their fumarole brows. New calendars. New clocks. All the same patter. Amazing what never changes. There might be an entire world of lucky ladybugs lost to the porches of ignorance, where sagacious cats whomp and steer them to paralysis and death. We must more closely examine the relationships between ALL things.
    To unfather you must de-sire? Naked arms angered, perhaps I’m looking too closely at the page; the lines seem like difficult ceilings and restless floors. But so do these wars. Hearts in twine, not entwined, scared of the pavement’s sacrifice and a colder new wind in a cauldron, dug in. I missed the boat but I can still swim. Hard to smile, but I can still grin. Fissures wide and hungry swallow the wild and the ugly for all our fathers’ arrogant follies, as all their ghosts sweep the floors.
    Some of the success is in not letting our peeves show. There is a star adrift in us which must house a whole system and bathe us like lugubrious children – age of lighthouse tourists on the belt and silicon armour sealing our mouths. What enemy have we met, and what would we do? What brings us money and ties our shoes? The vast and shrinking ice shelf still draws birds and swells.
    Night courting November, November courting a child, cold courting secret deaths…the age of furious travel is an unrecommended high-wire act full of hashashins spying on Hecate. Vicious span – staged gun fobs and all civil war roads stained w/ indifferent corpses – In the massive wake a gloomy whisper a horrified vine in my ear and a lake of freedom dwarfing Superior /: horses seem better companions as I age & see we humans are zombied, pained, punished for good relations /// my cat purrs and all of “civilization” relaxes, concurs that the mode is numb, so the animals come, when the crime is done at end of chiar-obscured night.

    Time-taps. effluvial reconciliation. Garland me, dear spring, in the lucky fuchsia of my dreams this time a cataplexy benumbed quatrain quarantine warrants a bell-dive, diva of wells…Antigone leaps, brazen dozen epochs stronger-willed than me: feral tilts of the unknown upped. The future dreams of the children ridicule us. Would you for one penny starve, your ills to take shape? It means we are archetypes of hagiography.

    O, Damnotus, call out the times!

    Equinox: dash-a-day, warden of war-myths convene the lair of scars again? edge an end, rustle of camo-sleeves popular trump of tv heroes says – “these are our best people.” Of an army, perhaps. Philosophers peer down, artists kaffe-klatsch & somehow chant the rough-edged bully-demon down who speaks in wars. precision bombing. (We too have our precise hits, herr general.) One is that the clench of power loses tenfold what it once clenched. One is the cattleprod of oilmen smirches the natural hence and before and on surety’s dove, satyrs hear the bellow of the sea… white lies, black lies too. Did the women of the sea borrow free? Oui, mon qui…tenuous cataracts of wanderlust blown down by Ares’ fierce battleflute.
    chawing seed of roughature…signature need in the baffulous high longing, salute the rain of day with no reign.

    Flee-thumb, or what we were: did the bombast free the tanned flocks of despothood? In the fire-strike of neighborhoods, football color commentators grout. Flum of a tear for Tom. Breath at just the right angles – “we’ll be right back” stream to a drumming lead or march 3/8 time to stir the nationalist heart. Nation for nation! To liberate, masticate, claw, break down! The peace-vigil rings are there to call in the whiteness, to make the star more real. Press with your voice a music into the unknown, mist of your sights (missed?) a conterminous history-myth-bill dung’s roman for a clef of the real on going calendar of life and visions presented to heal tribe. (at least to see) the vertiginous mystery aarrgh alights come be with, record. I’m a misery known, loved like the last of the wine – henchmen of the world no take, color experience proud.
    The dunce got a break, kept on getting
    Drunk on power, he launched the “arsenal of profits”
    (arse-in-all?) please fates put a stop sign up for ‘im.

    xi

    ready, the dream was a cauldron for me for I cannot sit where the peach rounds its skin. Ob-fervor, oh last! Night of the world’s latest star-death grocked a loveless mandrake of furtive rem-worlds saying of time-scrambled mists: I know. your turpentine halls of aquamarine tile are hospitals of the spirit now, a cocooned sailor from the 18th century or the Odyssey hides among noon teledevices. Small poet! You cannot utter these halls! You did not tumble the force of rain up into those nimbi ! Pot you will a stomach out like the rest in turn for your vest of narcissi! Culled water was rain spittle spread worlds of tumulous ocean pressed a dust-core to your inner threads! Motor of a thrush, plangent teal askance of general dearth. ‘twas a commemorating motion I heavily twirled. Could you decide, Uranus, anthems to fit the faithless men of the age, net the moronic eye, figure a guest? Give eye the prize of squealth magrons going to ticker-tape going to pot, seed, to rusty hymns imbalanced by the tracers of death!
    I measured up pregnant opposites, finally. Fah, folly! Dizzy emperosphere, cocks loaded in the Kether to dawnly priest the iambic, silent sun. Did daze notify our crammers. Deemers. Big Oedipi to freak water-earth with pike-fire of where the brain hot burns. Coral through the nose go humping, tropicals who sique the farthest drop of sun in their water. (Cats lay fey in every city, with largely no language.) We should??

    Oh, no no no. This is the human reekingball experimeant of meat we unravel liars, for God invented our deaths. Seek more, the real radio channel and only one at center says so predeathward clear and fair. Martwenty too of third’s third away from golgothic semblemount crasser making death of our guilt which was a warrior’s excess, ignorant of artificers of sun-myth. Toltec torches make it all the yage rare again this history of visions, if they wore modern necks. Probosci feel for the oil drip gorge wealth past its folds. The o’erstretched earth. Then bear men and women very good souls into that sluice uterine splash to that gate where we rush flush with the capillaries capitalist O skewer a tree or foreigner chop chop it all down to get ahead. Gaia’s grace which held us up! Beheld. Oh, behold. Creature has stuffed jowls self-satisfied & empty hear it groan. Sympathy. Bus stop litters a butt-galaxy of endless waste they complain and shove battery solenoid up nasal to speed up the nights they authentically cannot live. Selfish? “Speed my days to my bitter cough-in, race to jerk a buzz, leave searing contrail blaze my dreams go up in that.” What? Pedestrian. Go for. Congeals oriental to pray-up the earthen mirrors. Colt of found yr angles warm & shat back her status as mare high with bones & haggard equine mirth rug of hair. If you made me an iris… Fine, board the sedge. Mixed, my phantoms are w/ glorious want and said to my soul the very wine for passage through mystic eves.
    Pylon or phalli to chronologeographicanalogous rearrangement so Jesus gets a ride on the space shuttle to watch Olympians from there brace……………………
    For interrogative tides, meditative Mediterranean ghosts aside Hades’ pebbles a lark for his one neutral beard of looks……
    Here come the new languages! Sartre scything on the Massif Central for his pod or pearl in the loom, pretty bales, pelt of nails in the clear for fill of philosophy at the end it is said we know nothing, but our angel has come and we cough out our last & French horns cure stolid veins of fetters secrete tears oft making secret wines still implore us in the summer to walk the commons w/ a silent lust for the keys;;;;;;;;;; [long pause]
    Sands are skinning, Sahara snakes its wrath to a wraith for a dry earth-blow uppance tooth of a man’s what made sadder, his tractate bit w/ a welter’s rooks Wyoming why-roaming of august last still shining up through my storm to say naming’s late – that swan flew. Hardly. Did a taste vet fawns, flaws, an excoriating cause of this personal war…grasslands high a bit w/ her winds imperiously hawking call a bit to the edulcorated soil – Oft a recall of pet myths has set it to a tome, the putter of poetry produced vehement prophecy, saying:

    breast royal ends. Oft spinners bled / arroyo sunshine car / blessed astronaut of freewill flips both sides, sits still. (if its all one is to have) seek! Here you are so neutral, gearless havingtoabide laughless all day in the
    smithereens of it. Swallow small and SUN…enter. Value shadows look in that forbidden well (to others “sin”) I AM time & intellect, prying catastrophic niche, uncolluded purposes…bridges with talons, the auroral trait (if it is all one has) if not, save. Hail piper when he broadens up along the path to lead rats through streets of pyrite down to the darkened sea.

    & was there a new Kristallnacht? Thoughts of a future skyscraper twin(n)ed perhaps, ending in a stylus, or in vents that bade us hold our breath in a circus of searching for a career near prized water thoughts of a future ending in a stylus & the ash fell shockingly, following the booms, all around manhattan’s glans – Pompeii thoughts, running harbingers in their reluctant play, travel along the unscheduled demolition & she chanted breathless “thank gods” all a-tremble, and – wouldn’t you? If the new Kristallnacht appeared and fell & your shoulder, untouched, was able to hide? As the very basis for good thoughts fails along with the steel and glass and stylus & fathers of a soaring corner leaving a crater in the center of the world… slayed, near all – slim dozens made safety’s grim clutch…..
    those who have the power to have put even the goldest drones on the list as I reach for my gas mask, fall’s new fashions trotted out, baseball madness thoughts of a hole in the world – no stylus, profit, towers in the sky, flowers of goodbye… carry on? In some way? Good long.

    xii

    Vision Turks cross my Rubicon w/ hot pincers of kindness to say Bosporos whores of tea get the strange urge too / pinnacles comported through the through of a selected age where trends rode us but sconce-souls obbed from away sunfinger them too back from luxurious coasts of gray and of “lady has a say as soon as we see seaside in her long escarpment of crashes in the brine” corumburate fowls of the loam the farm, winery bid river-doers land in port & drink down the guzzle of un-caution & thwart bright bullets or buttons of furious rain from the fated, catalepsy achtung! From the real arc of Ishmael where word-symbols reverberating ergs from Kabala for millennia hold the Hasidic horn of obverse verse fetted. Jest of a just self sing! Stingers of endive, bringers of realm-red steel find cities with cold heels and fatal futures for their imps. Slide, per dictum you could taste dawn in those lambs of cruel wait.

    Static bolt! Messenger of languorous winter, energy stags stagnant w drear; never fear, the ear and eye of sojournal heights brought the swordkeeper guides, soft judges again, & kept real the prarie rain of caught-for-fear-in-the-wool-dyed fun! Ran the truck along elegantine thousands (tics on the turf that freewayed its native hue)

    “You can surf my soul if I can surf yours,” (mores hidden, I scrubbed her in the morning spray eso-erotic dream departure) Sods bought, erect temps of renter’s boughs a somewhere dreams are bought too. Sullen Saturdays Saturnian leap and blowing a side of the world – (storm blister the verse.) Vicarious Icarus Iscariot chariot – all in the recall of those higher chests of doubt, tridents of shame; leave the loft to go plug summer questions w/ a winter soul. All value various. Rampart civilize tromp l’oeuil catters who scud. Learners of car and bomb, gun and brain; woman of antennae hairs of wanting brushes seasons up, darkly smiles. Knocked up with death, lady? Childless, I freely rack. [rank?] Songers aplomb be-term the germ daronned for curees!

    Stammer up the Sun, Crispin! Of love the patter of lakes
    Be swooned, Moon of yarns, call outly to your Queen!
    Tang enjoyed, the vassal betwixt reaper’s incumbent curl!

    a ventrous side of history with eggs / perk exotic mornings up forever / Blue tides uprisen in the tawn of young flesh not in time. Kick for feels, Milarepa waits. Hills heard fills & winds, winding leaves; lascivious performing days of certain ancients viewed Santorini blown. Soured, soothed. I ran my hard pain to a song & a svelte sound of self grew healing horns. (Not the only galactic catastrophe) Trunk in soul hid many go-things that whelped to sunny music. Who sought bird-squelch, dodo, sought their evil zephyr. Contusion of magma sent the ancient mythsmiths their caul. Brood these good things back! Steeds of whim stood ‘cross fields of home & move with the moon; like us, with the sun too. Swift Mars of War doing surgery on Old Babylon can’t help but ape the oldest wars’ limns. Why invade where earth’s first city lies? (I stammered for a ram to burst greed at the lips.) See a world says take. More the better. Mammon. Sunny honey? Money. Funny? Money. Make a rummy of a saint. 7-11-21. Roll for a big one, homeless wait outside. Specter of a shove? Too bad.

    The lean of the lines burns; or cools if the day agrees – Porch of other wars, monstrous; entail the greedy mounds of games.
    A fishery of juvenilia screams! Ride your untold day in the certitude of
    Vespers! (that you did as the life-staff sprung) Azaleas foisted the songs of entering close love. Fibbers coiled up, along with the stipend of truth. If a fowl, finder scowl, trump the month with hands. Scene of the moods from hell swore to scar / love if she never looked or felt afar. Caryatids fine for. Sin’s demands are preternatural – the fire I feel is me! Ocularity of a future jumps and blows commerce to other suns. Eyes fixed. Convelations. Moods. Laser soars to fix minds & eyes well. Fine figure of doing slept stoutly to confine:
    a. finery & horses on the wing of morning march.
    b. Piece together pie of arrows.
    c. Borders rolled through of alien colors reigned still.

    Stash of yarns through years which moved a swell of ears to seas of tumid effluvia, or that of March you did blaze a claim; taupe of clouds blow on… imaginary ash of a fey storm fell, fled to delay hell’s tide…Flown, you dance. Dance you must. Must have sung. Vaultible flag of me that tries triads for compact memoranda of memory or symphonies in a sentient sentence…Voila! The schism of Man enflamed by terror’s sconce. Terror sits in many houses, confers many forms, in deceitful clamor born.

    No, art shall never die out from the good and poisoned earth. There is a tractate of powers that goes through all laws and to which we must make ourselves familiar. Pleas, please. Hives & hymns. The megaphone of nature rode high up on new winds and burgeoned the pastoral pastels. Pedestrian delayed the drag, got the horn, re-told of swans. What birds fell! – from the eaves, haranguing the cats, exemplary shouts of speed… what realm to snag sound or the full fish of resurrection? What supreme erection? The curve of men to stay sped, up through nights bewitched by obduracy, fastidious flashes of dust? Roamers come to dread the men who envy them – freedom to what? Plow new lebensraum to change money? Iffers swift. Stopper of plum(b)s. The unconcealed zealot goes strange to change, too obvious in the general glare. Child gusts zeal crowd ; zealot farce, an ass is found, denied. “Time engaged the stylus of controversy, not mercy: the bible pricks, quells the wound, and hounds.” It predicts weakness, makes us cling to haughty propagation. Distended fancy. Ender of kicks, resolute. Upsuited electric question mark falls into the bath of philosophic distress. (Elemental moves of synchronicity breed new nomenclature. And one is given? Nom de guerre?) Apt, child, to these times of no-say wars? Cleanse spotty fields of their rape, and tell a child of that gape?! A mother’s milk will go much farther if _______; a tegument of gates, derider.

    xiii

    Palaver, should I name it? A trad-verse formulation, night of the hot muse.:

    Where should we go from here?
    Now ‘twe’ve sent our machines
    Past Pluto with a sidereal arm of questions?

    A million answers in the wind
    But as yet no trophy to assay Man
    On the collective mantle…

    Where are we, O to flee
    When we ride the dragon-hep
    Whose neck’s ligatured by his tail
    Pointed down and sharp for death?

    O what are we, the small, to believe?
    Sun of truth by evil moons eclipsed?
    Sent by men, those orbs, on sated eves,
    When forgers awake from their lapse?

    Who will shout when the music’s low,
    The lush hills in wait for pagans unbound,
    Returned to the seasons of passion’s orgy,
    The hoppy verdance of human sound…

    And whose zephyr thus?
    Rigors of what spoken God?
    Ingenious high nest, yes? Held in an arm
    Of the splendent Sun? Rejoice in your
    Dissolute fun!

    With one, O one soul said,
    As many in their tired vice surround,
    Agreeable archetypes, roles of lead,
    High and low, redeem and confound

    When in wrath, in bath I sit, given
    And what I take w/ the golden rake,
    Has as yet to be wholly shriven.
    (For to Man that temperament is fake.)

    So scuttle the farms, make damp the hearths?
    Ruminate on broken, breaking hearts.
    And vie up one day for death –
    (His white handmaiden floored, and yet…)

    The wine made from blood’s bitter weather
    That fault could send for a fling!
    Then we go out and get the real thing,
    ‘til our cloven minds ring feathered.

    When that private ear burns our sky
    Of years outside the known, and high,
    Weather jaunts an onerous road,
    Lured and duped and rent abode

    Wherefore affliction’s broad wings splay
    (Our prayers ever the color of air)
    Coach rudiments, God, my soul it lays
    In the deep gorge ‘twixt the foul and fair.

    …what a Spring for death ! the acorns of foolage profess the dire atmosphere as March comes ending with bombs: pre-striken, pre-chosen drum-beating hawks ignore humanity as they shove their misplaced wrath in all directions but good. what would fables bear? to grunt and sweat ‘neath an eerie telecide captive-vision as ape-throngs are slow-numbed? The undiscovered country is an unfounded America which we thought has always stood which they jettisoned for fool games of genocidal money cant. So sound the Spring trees still stand unbewitched bear the fronds and fruits fearless which drop on driveways, the only capsules of truth left… stabbers fawn, stabbers go, stabbers stab justice ‘til she bows – a culture-fettle of escape which mocks the only bird it knows, called envy. I no longer capitalize the word bush – it is a ruse, a bluff, birds no longer even hide in – only the seasons of inner, outer steely truth, only the things of loft left in this zeitgeist. Derogatory plebes struck oil, plotted world rule, rewrote history, co-opted by Ultima Thule, ultimate mask of Janus, the hypocrites stand and stand what for and why? God has left us to be the anarchists to evil, and the middle class is bribed into cowardice. Let the boycotts go forth and reign: do not purchase the big lie or its products; let the poets rule! Let Shelley’s maxim drop from bluer skies to crack the domes of perdition whence laws make death factories boom! Rule by wisest: sophocracy: and let humanity’s ills be ever forestalled. susperiate failsafe node of imperators too quickly and perhaps some sentimental season will fall a-crash, heralding death’s ultrafeast. On your feet! Vast sphagnum of lies is die cast in telecide…….!
    Re-redeemer bumping up miracles that get blown back, a mother’s son up on the fence like a Cathar knight. (those hidden crusaders still fly)

    O your blue earth! War-torn, desert dynasties pried, new Babylon vs. old with bombs of dry expulsion, pulsing an out and out rip-open of Sodom’s newest incarnation. O blue, blue earth mother a dirty veil of sand and lies bathe termgivers w/ a wrath of their own / wrath for wrath & struts of bone! Thrift! Will the makers destroy what’s made with their destiny bought? An agony-washed tromp l’oeuil in the mains is haggard geography crafted w/ motherborn thieves, a dumped hagiography.

    I had a dream of vines o’ergrowing me
    And in that dream, one of mawkish demands,
    Stole the darkness, leaving us varied as moles
    In an age of sudden mystery.

    A verse docume

    4/25/2008

    Bottles Of Genocide

    Filed under: — site admin @ 6:40 pm


    Life is not fair they say,
    and then they win,
    and then they celebrate,
    and then they accelerate
    with the faces of the feast
    under foot.

    And like a rear view mirror,
    the weak rise up with machetes.

    You just can’t win wars without
    a bottle of genocide on your side.
    The streets are covered with the broken glass
    of head-butted windshields
    like melting ice cubes.

    Empires pass through here, changing lanes
    through wars on poverty, wars on inflation,
    through laws which change like secret codes
    the war on drugs, illegal immigration,
    the infidelity of slaves.

    They speak of the Jews, it’s a glass menagerie.
    The scientific beatitude, the failure of God;
    the Heidegger on the shelf,
    the Ford in the driveway.

    We will stitch up Iraq with razor wire,
    its the sound of Moses snoring,
    its the rattling wheel’s of Nahum,
    but even these things fall lesser.

    The tray of bubbling flutes glitter grimly
    all the way from below to what’s left behind,
    the top of the whole wide world
    screeching into the forgotten,
    blackening the street with the most fowl secret:

    Death by automobile.

    The Inner Tube Tree

      The manual laborer of pedaled wheels
      pulls around the symbol of his relationship with time
      as it hisses, quickly losing form.


      A circle of patches to be balanced against the odds,
      stuffed with compressed air against long stretches of road
      like a rubber band that becomes a black cobra
      swallowed by its own tail, then dies, becomes limp;
      and so the bike surgeon tries his best,
      but gives up on it,
      gives it up to the innertube tree.
      He swirls it up into the air, briefly
      the shape gasps, as though wigling against memory,
      and then it slides defeated into the monument.


      Its an art form how to toss them up there,
      like putting make-up on dead wind,
      like fly fishing for black birds
      and then the line breaks.


      The bulbous tree like a venus fly catcher
      never gives up the old carnies;
      buds burgeon green, then to orange and yellow,
      wreathing the pliant exoskeletons beyond season.
      The street is her long digestive track, the wind her juices,
      but they stay put like fossils in an inverted cave


      across the street from the plasma donation center.
      The tired men wait there, with cheap house painting
      jobs splattered across their 2nd hand pants and sleaves,
      with 3rd read newspapers in their hands, and counting
      in their minds their bills, groceries, beer, and cigarettes
      from the 25 dollars they will receive for strapping
      their arms to the donation machine.
      The tubes blow back and forth, the needle in the vein,
      the blood platelets go into one containment
      while the plasma is filtered into another,
      and then the blood cells are returned
      if it all goes as planned.


      Caesar’s Things



      “Render therefore unto C the things which be C
      And unto G the things which be G.” Luke 20:22



      These pieces of subjected time
      in the rendering of history
      lay around before me
      as I walk the dogs of strangers.



      I find these things, see them, what others
      ignore as litter, obsolete truths;
      I assign the variable meanings
      of an untenable Universe,
      the of nothing as the of something.



      A thing that is a wall,
      and a thing of scattered stones.
      I enbrace the idea with vigilance
      and with vigilance declare its heracy
      as I walk the dogs of strangers.



      A thing to be born,
      and a thing to die,
      a thing to plant,
      and a thing to pluck,
      a thing to kill,
      a thing to heal,
      to break down, to build up: An old can



      that weeps and worries full of what I did;
      A faded bottle that laughs under my stare,
      and the shattered shards of my mourning
      against a sun dancing upon them.



      And the dog walks me to the south,
      and the dog walks me to the north,
      the path whirls about continuously
      returning again according to the circuits;
      The lifting of her leg, the marking of things.



      And all these things run into the sea;
      yet, the sea is not full; and from
      where all things come from, they return
      like the names which children give things
      like the names which parents give children.



      A thing to get,
      and a thing to lose;
      a thing to keep,
      and a thing to cast away;
      a thing to turn into something else,
      a thing to sew unto silence, like words
      cast into the garden of the heard.



      A thing to love,
      and a thing to fear;
      a thing of war,
      and a thing of art.
      I gather up the vexation of ideas
      and put them into miscellaneous bags.



      I came along the path a fierce white wolf
      and my dog pushed me aside, over an embankment,
      and where there is one wolf, there are others,
      and swiftly we ran along the shore of the lake,
      our legs leaping over many uncovered things,
      just as the wolves may have watched us for weeks



      And then one day made themselves apparent,
      perhaps wondering, why had we ignored them?

    4/11/2007

    Recent Paintings Of Synchronic Alchemy, By Ken Boe

    Filed under: — site admin @ 9:00 pm

    GALLERY 414 - FINAL FRIDAY CLOSING RECEPTION
    Please Note: This Show has ended, some works still available.
    click here to see some Ken Boe Art on myspace

    Overview: The “man-made” object is subject to the violence of being thrown out, exposing it to the elements and entropy of nature. The object is divested of its functional meaning, entering a state of abstraction, until it exists no longer. My art works harvest these types of abstraction midway, also including The Scribble painting with Manipulated Whips(Action Printing), and other techniques which brew design from chaos and order. Why I do this has its roots in my learning on the function of art itself: The Theory Of Synchronic Alchemy.

    The intention is to create an ambiguous but wide ranging vocabulary of imagery which may become synchronic at an unconscious level with the creative thinking process of those who are in the presence of the work. For this, I prescribe “sticky” images, rather than hyper-clean “digital” imagery, especially in today’s commercial environment. My work is very experimental, and by exhibiting them one is communicating the basic idea of experimentation to those present, for instance.

    My main theory of Synchronic Alchemy is that while at a gallery or museum one may spend a few moments staring at an art work, but most of the time art work and other objects around us are only viewed peripherally. Yet, peripheral viewing is a powerful process not well known. The subconscious mind is “seeing” and processing peripherally gathered information in numerous ways. If there is someone in a crowd you knew years ago, your subconscious mind will inform your conscious mind to notice them. Other signifiers are to recognize danger, food or water sources, lost items, sexual orientations, tool making needs, and the intellectual and communication tools of Analogy and Metaphor. A synchronous intellectual harmony exists in a gathering of two or more naturally when they share an art-rich and/or nature rich environment in which they discuss ideas together: The place of the discussion is the most immediate language shared. It is where our bodies are. It is an instantaneous and experiential well of shapes, forms, and variable symbolism to derive tropes from for communication and concept making.

    Cognitive Science has demonstrated that language is foundationally metaphorical, and experientially embodied. For instance, the earthly experience of gravity informs the metaphorical basis of “up” meaning positive, and “down” meaning negative. Hell is falling down, heaven is ascendant, on and on, but let’s not get bogged down in examples.

    What I discovered in 1992 hiking in the Berkeley Hills was that surrounding imagery informs creative discussion with someone else you are with. While involved in a very intellectual and creative discussion, I noticed that I was using metaphors and analogies from the natural environment around us to bridge the concepts between us. Roots, branches, and an old bottle became creative tools in our discussion. But I had not noticed that I even saw these images, until I looked over and realized the synchronic processing that had just occurred. This moment convinced me more than ever to continue with my pursuits as an artist, and to hone a path for further learning to develop these ideas for my art work. My goal has been to create art which provides a rich synchronic vocabulary for those around it, enabling the creativity of those who press on together in changing the world in their own ways, with pleasure. I hope to create the ultimate art for the creative class to display in their offices, conference rooms, studios and living rooms. Raw art is like vitamins to a digitally sterilized work place. In fact, I believe that class rooms should be filled with art if educators are serious about having real discussions.

    I am interested in doing artwork designed for specific teams of people to display where they work (this can involve a gentle but experimental interviewing technique with participants, and/or research into the archetypes most suited to their creative needs.) I am also interested in working with a clinical researcher for a more empirical study on peripheral sensory information collection/processing, and the pharmaka† of art (†Greek for both painting and remedy.) For an appointment with the artist, e-mail to kenboe@gmail.com to see works from the current exhibition, to commission work, or to participate in similar projects and collaborations.
    © 11/24/2006

    THE DAPHNE, OR METAMORPHOSIS PROJECT

    Filed under: — site admin @ 7:49 pm

    The last group show at Gallery 414 in Wichita, Kansas concerned itself with metamorphosis. I offered up to myself and the other artists an essay-bibliography-poem by Norman O. Brown titled Daphne, or Metamorphosis. This wonderful meandering image-ontology of myth and imagination offers a sapling from which we may grow or revive artworks to put in this show, even without much time to do so. But we artists cannot rest on our laurels, and any excuse to produce must be induced as much as possible, and that is what I aim to do here with these shows. Metamorphosis is a constant in art, and symbol making in general, and some of our cultural roots in trying to understand this transformation of meaning and image go back to the ancient Greeks, and the story of Apollo and Daphne. Brown’s writing is a modern way of approaching that without telling the artist exactly what they should do, and for the artist to do what they do, without telling the audience exactly what they should think or perceive from a piece.

    Here is a sample of Brown’s writing, as allowed online from the publisher:click for METAMORPHOSIS

    It is just one kind of stretch that artist’s make, to use ancient cultural mythologies in order to create transformational imagery. It is a cogent one, though, since it is retroactive to the evolution of human symbol-making to draw upon myths. Myths were carved to be justifiable to the elders, but these days we are a little more free to do whatever we want with symbolism, image, substance, and meaning. We have more symbols to play with(Daphne could turn into a refrigerator, instead of a Laurel tree,) or she could run for President. So don’t feel encumbered by Mythology with a capitol M. Let’s just put on another good show for the art walk, the last ones have been so good, and its been so much fun. And if you’ve got some cash, buy some of the artwork in this show for your home to experience a metamorphosis all your own.
    Email kenboe@gmail.com for more information.

    Where: Gallery 414 (in the Wichita Art District, at Commerce and Waterman)
    414 S. Commerce, Wichita, KS
    When: May 25th, 2007 from 6pm to 11pm, rain or sun and moon.

    ARTIST WEBSITES:

    MICHAEL KOZIEN

    KENT WILLIAMS

    SCOTT MURREY

    CODY SEEKINS

    Kenneth Boe

    Other artist’s include Tim Steinlage, and Matthew Alber, from Lawrence; Art Kenyon, Rick Dunway, and Bradley Sims from Wichita.

    Special Thanks to Chris Stong

    3/16/2007

    Mixed Media, Mixed Message (Manifesto)

    Filed under: — site admin @ 6:48 pm

    MIXED MEDIA MIXED MESSAGE
    Group Show for Final Friday – March 30th, 2007 6PM to 11PM:
    414 S. Commerce Street in the Wichita Kansas Art District.

    Though the artwork in this show is defined by each artist individually, there is much that I would like to say about this bastard term “mixed media”. Artists and curators use it repeatedly on the little tags that state the artists name, medium, price, etc. We use it to describe medium because we’re too lazy, embarrassed, or unsure to write out an eclectic list of materials used in an experimental artwork that we think the public is too lazy, ignorant, and uninterested to read in the first place, which may often be true, or it certainly will be.

    The problem I have with this kind of exclusion is that the information about medium informs our literacy of texture when viewing artworks, which informs our appreciation of artwork, and our ability to “read” imagery in general. For those of us who are interested in learning about the mediums behind mixed-media, it is our chance to become more involved, educated, and interested. I believe humans have a great capacity for this kind of literacy which I call “textural literacy”. There is a texture to how different kinds of paints and materials lay down, pop out, dry, shine, crackle, ooze, sag, puff, glitter, etc..etc… which is how the “trained eye”, though hands on experience, recognizes media. And if “the medium is the message”, then there are many subtle messages coming through an artwork which is mixed-media. (And do not let the message about whether or not an artist’s choice of materials is “professional” sway you, for these pretensions were rendered obsolete by the Da Da movement in the 1920’s.)

    As mixed-media artists we need to contribute to our collective learning of this subtle message-making through materials-used because the poetry of this kind of literacy can only be handled intuitively. No one has really written out the vocabulary of texture, or how to pair it with content, its just something that our brains are capable of. The more we can inform each other and the public of the results of our experimentation’s, the more we can advance as artists, and the more mixed-media art can advance as part of our cultural dialogue, and the more our culture can advance by engaging it.

    Just to give an example of mixed-media-mixed-message-making, consider a heart painted in tar, ground dead leaves, and oil paint. Compare that to the same heart painted with acrylic paint. Compare that to one painted by an airbrush, as with medical illustration. Compare that to one cut out of construction paper, or to one that is printed on a gift card. Go look at the heart made of core 10 steel at the Lawrence Art Center. These are all different messages weaving through the same supposed content because of the media used to make them. We recognize them differently through their texture(which like the word text, comes from the latin word textus, which means to weave.)

    ARTIST WEBSITES:
    Lee Shiney

    Chris Frank

    Paul McKee

    Kent Williams

    Kenneth Boe

    Other participating artists were Art Kenyon, Mande Braden, Brian Niles, and Paul Harrold.

    © 2007 Kenneth Petersen Boe

    4/12/2005

    ENEMY TOWERS ˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚ A 3 Act Play For The Stage by kenboe

    Filed under: — site admin @ 11:48 pm

    click HERE for ENEMY TOWERS

    “The average person seems so numb and zombified, art is like waving your hands in their face and saying, “Hey! wake up!” Chet Zar

    I recently had the opportunity to pick the mind of Chet Zar— native Californian artist—known for his work with the band Tool, movies such as Sin City, and surrealist portraits. For November I have also interviewed Idaho sculptor Samuel Stimpert.
    Click here for the Underground Art Union INTERVIEWS

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