1996 Road Movie, leaving, Long Island

1996 Road Movie  leaving, Long Island 

the gaudy mythos, 

revolving 

down 

into Orphic AMERICA 

from under his Mountains,

this mock hero,

this fiction into a historic journey 

of the second chance, 

the American west, kicking the shards in 

dust and tumbleweed, 

Sierra in distance, 

the bird, 

out there, 

somewhere, in the sun

and hoped for future.

a moment

cycling 

revolves crystal

re-dreamed, 

the gods echoed in the sky,

Become that tree!

The oneness in copying, 

Well, he wondered

We becoming it? 

One,

to be one, with

breathing with these 

cycles of universe, 

copying,

becoming--

 “and to all these who sold out the 

imagination,” he was unsparing,  

”...who killed 

the red headed bird?”

to name this self 

and renaming it,

this self, me

the not me

conscious me

unconscious me

real me.

I have picked out the more optimistic parts. There was a time in the Art World that I struggled through much negativity. It was a disappointment to find it seemed that bent of mind was winning out. Possibly these ensuing years have been a struggle to hold my own against this prevailing trend in culture.

Since Clouds, leaves, waves. 1996

Clouds, leaves, waves. was published in 1996, by Turtle Point Press with a preface by Harold Bloom.

There have been poems written regularly since 1996, but unpublished.

This site will record them.

There is 'Desert Poem' a poem written after the experience teaching at Deep Springs College in 1995.

'Long Island' follows and becomes the beginning of 'Road Movie' in 1996.

'Florida Poem' was written in 1995 after a painting trip there for a month in March 1995.

There has been 'Road Movie' started in 1996 and the last finished editing was in 2000.

Then, 'All One, falling.' written in 2001 and edited to 2003.

Back 2 the StudiO, is from 2005-06.

The method has been to follow journals of daily ideas and of painting in the studio. In the transcribing of them a rhythm or voice was found and it continues to this day, evolving as it goes on.

The writer is a painter and has always been aware of the lack of expertise the poems have in relation to the expenditure of energy in painting. I am aware also of the difference in daily habit from my writing and a poet writing daily, being his or her life.

Again, I am a painter.

But this writing continues and I have rather naturally continued recording it and so here it is.

I reserve any judgement myself and as Harold Bloom said in his preface to Clouds, leaves, waves., "it is not meant to stand alone."

Of course this is a question that presents itself as time goes on, what exactly is it?

Without the internet it would be as a friend said, 'just put away in a draw.'