#3 Back 2 the StudiO
42.
late at night the stars,
revolving round
the branches swinging
( he'd seen the branches in the studio,
high up, in the sky lit window )
swoosh, how to get
to that seriousness
THE comic tragic serious
staking one's life on meaning
some, thing or cycle of being
or just the sun
light-- to dark
up and down
from out here
over there
in here
got something to bring along
dwell there
black stars
blue sky
his eyes
half shut he fell
back on his heels
trying to be there in the half light
hearing the frogs
43.
one makes the painting
what is beyond
just over the horizon
this grey reflecting
big deal big--
44.
he didn’t want to
leave there
he’d been there a long time
making something of that place
“How could he tolerate that,” they asked
the nonsense post-- past-- end of--
art, no art, no self
post-- Fiction, “hell I made it all up”
no imagination
not there
no Katsina shining
through
onslaught of grey
through the barren wind
no color
no black outlined
not there--there
no Insistence of being
the rain
the rain
from this heaven
falls, he said, “from all directions”
green, green
the dream of
“I’m out in the garden,”
45.
Candide yelled
the catastrophes side--stepped
sunflowers to sky,
climbing the beanstalk
dreaming dead
and catching butterflies
"I think I can,
I think I can"
leave all this behind
or no
maybe the reduction
pack it up,
reduce it
fold it all into
a manageable size
forget it, send a truck back for it
later
if he needed it
He’d almost given up
through the ongoing wind
deeper snow
he sold the car
on Trash and Treasures
light of new morning
he was off again—
headscratching
discombobulation
the Modern dream--
all the same romance
47.
Believe it, --or not?
The Modern, fallacy
just selling off the whole
god damned dream
the profound
fall into time
that, Yosemite Falls
out there still, distant
faint sound, roar, thunder
he could hear it,
the fall, of comet shape
he held the flower,
held it up to the sun
as it set once again
--again
flat enamel stripes on aluminum panel
He was out there
“after he was dead,” someone said
some of them kept on
he kicked around
in what was left
it hadn’t meant anything,
to anyone else
this wasn’t his biography
they didn’t know
48.
him, for he
was already dead
but he found some pleasure
in looking over there
in the sun
fearing the stars
relishing their air
and shimmer
dead god being god
dead
there was just no authority
directing his story
“there was nothing behind the curtain”
Oz or art
or, nature
but tradition maybe, but we
had to keep some interest as
there was nothing --no
he would go too far
This was why he was and kept on
these questions
they were writing all these books
more end of nature
more end of art
Seemed, more, THE END OF YOU
49.
a door shutting
shutting on a time
like 1984
like 2001
He’d have to tackle it all over again
Achilles, still standing in black
sun shield shimmer
that was his dream
going back into, the coming back
what boon?
he was off once more
into the wood, in search
of his interior paramour
realizing inner realities
informing the outer hugeness
of Davy Crocket POEM
of what never really was
what was always nearly at an end
this myth in the sun
the falling moments-- gone
he had been there creating against
he vowed, that end, his reality
his getting through, his seeing
2.
the other
the returning
through the spaces
of painting, poetry
he was out in the backyard
bum style, reading what was there
lost like, reading
I’m reading reality, he exclaimed
to the bird that flit, and there,
flit, drawing really
he always came home
somewhere to a home
that was changed-- no home
to an Idiot wind of no direction
like a home one can not come home to
there was none
but first order, touch, touch
contact, touch, the world
touch, touch
a certain modernism
over hatched, another whole
this newly created
touch, touch--
“the studio-- stupid!”
He saw snow blowing
off the mountain peak the clouds
of snow
--ism! and poof!
no thud-- a design
on a wall, the black paint
stars
talking to himself
looking out there, beyond
everyday ideal, moment
falls, no ideal but ideas,
revolving
ideal world these phases
representing the painter
painting the aspen tree
among the September
leaves
the first snow
blue, clearing
sky, and everything
brand new and crisp
and scuttling away
“create this new, here now
5.
not some future--
” left scrawled
on the dining room table
the broken windows,
the drapes blowing
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