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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 my encaustic show at THE COPPERMINE PICTURE CAFE

Neither/Nor

The raven takes the smallest pieces
of forbidden knowledge,
confabulating in carnal thesis
with claw on bible
his dead man’s pledge:

Never More

That life he lived
fraught for his liver,
and his forsaken gifts,
though not forgiven,
to speck across his eyes azure
like holes straight through his scull’s contour.

Through his head then flies the raven.

Through to the charms long lost, forgotten,
the laws engraved on fleeting wind
like the hush of secrets ill-spoken.

This talisman is a dream of wealth,
This talisman is a dream of murder;
Who brought this score of another’s death,
as one man’s scream is another’s laughter:

either/or

That he personified animals
within his own evil
then threaded their feathers
back onto the villain;
wars wolfed, and vanity vultured
into a GI Joe scarecrow, a crucified totem,
his stomach, his brain, his culture.

Neither/Nor

He is contained by his own shadow
like tintinnabulation in the bell tolled
escaping out through the burned over meadow
yet vibrating last where his eyes get cold.

He prays and he raves for the blood of Mohammad,
for fortune, for frankincense and crude.

He is we is of the morals of the sad
history of the self, and the stark raving rude
generations that don’t give a flying fuck.

The generations of pink noise and white lies
feeding off the world’s poor like the raven plucks
out of war, out of waste, our eyes.

© Ken Boe 2007 El Tovar, Grand Canyon

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