1997, Brooken Beauty, California and 1997, Brooken Beauty, Joshua Tree

1997  Brooken Beauty  California

On this abandoned cartoon road 

A prairie chicken, headed south

roadrunner, 

toot-- toot--

Scrambling from reverent pose to road movie genre,

Well, looking for a place to camp, 

arriving to suburban 

party of water toys, they’re packing up jet skis

from the week end days spent--

zooming--in and around

Uneasy, I look around and notice in the orange grove 

a small tiny black shape.

Some how catches my attention, through the noise 

and general theme park scene-- 

then a flash! 

of red as it turned, a flag-- a tanager?

no, a brighter fire-lit orange

smaller shape, 

a vermilion, yes-- !

A Vermilion Flycatcher!

A mascot for this new experience of Colorado River

desert water world, WoW, 

I’d seen many pictures of this amazing

little bird, unreal to me till now, 

I clicked my tongue 

As it flew up, 

and still in mid air

A display of defense or just showing off !

At the end of the day’s sun bouncing 

from it’s breast,

amazed, something truly happened!

• 
  

1997  Brooken Beauty  Joshua Tree

I’m out there painting anyway

Arms thrown up in ecstasy, a Heretic

Twirling, in the space of my NEW religion 

One, one, one--

Out painting, as the Hero, in the Sun

Stars

We’ve left the earth for second 

order Culture, Madonna God

tired of the endless silence, 

the blank stare of the sky.

But I got out of the car!

could see everything 

and its relationship with the other, 

walked up the hill

the rock, sand, wisp of grass

the bush to bush

the lizard here

to there

Bird call in the wind --

I spot it over there!

the lizard scurries 

to there

through there

t  t   t    tracks of a tortoise

sun going down

sun coming up

• 
  

Everlasting beauty

I’m stretching canvas, cleaning up the Ranger Station

making a camp, figured out the water, 

made two paintings today

A ga-- at every thing, then, one in the evening.

Painted the clouds, and then today they’re gone 

I never saw them again in a whole months time

pitched the tent and made a fire 

painted the sunset

thinking of that desert tortoise as I drift off,

• 
  

the sun and the landscape, all revolving

that range to the east in shadow

then better at evening with 

long lines across the canyon 

the yucca and cactus bloom 

already dark in shadow 

by 3 PM shadows moving fast 

across the valley, new wild flowers 

arrive daily, I take note with paintings, 

A Scott’s Oriole singing 

from the top of a Joshua Tree flies--looping

from bloom to bloom, yucca flowers. 

A chain-link snake slithers at my foot,

 in an ‘s’s’ curve 

between bushes, disappearing -- but there, 

I can see it’s whereabouts-- as I finished another painting

and now dumbly staring in exhaustion 

into the fire.

• 
  

There! the god was

the bird, stopped

the shield 

brought forward

dreaming to ideal

form

stop

oneness

with the world

clap of hands

bang!

ther-e 

the god is!

the Mormons 

I read, saw the trees 

like Joshua leading 

them on to the Promised Land

nature presenting 

experience rejuvenating Art, 

• 
  

I take the abstraction of the cycle 

and add it back to representation, 

making a larger modern nature, 

fantastic in large color form and 

elegant line

putting the content 

back upon that great abstraction

cycling, mythos

the sun comes up

the sun goes down

the hero 

still arriving, 

again and again 

each day from the East arriving

from dream 

the morning light

the mock epic

pop pilgrim

art flashing

at every end, 

a beginning

flashing

before our eyes

all the cycles

• 
  

These two sections have been one and I will probably put them back together.

In Joshua Tree I spent enough time for the actual naturalism of the place to grow to a metaphoric level and the symbol world I am after. The figure then represents this all. Then all is metaphoric of this created whole world.

The anxiety and the encroaching, “pressure of reality,” here is less in these passages, and the paintings unfold on their own among this plenitude.

1997 Brooken Beauty Marching onward

1997 Brooken Beauty  Marching onward

headed for the Bridge

He felt insane telling them, 

what he said was “he needed a drink--”

walking the boulevard, Layfayette-- Walt

touched by the great man, a beggar sought--

The rabbit hole in green hills, windy woods

of a home, a beginning for a journey

stepping around trash, 

discards-- a coffee cup rolling— driven

stepping aside to let the cars pass

The Bridge ahead, I drove myself too far

beyond a rationale of behavior, a mess

too much money thrown to no avail,

Is insanity breeding the edge, 

not what is claimed

except, this pain, writing on

stumbling from the curb 

speeds a depth

that propels a memory forward to a desire

of that whole, 

grasped and a future

One, One!

in thought

and ideal- what a God was, 

a universal--

release from this pain, or rehearsed guilt

habit of mind, collapsing

into SOLIPSISTIC action, 

out of gear, 

out of control 

lack of self control

my beloved freedom, of IDEAL!

someone else’s ballon from b-day party

careening through the streets 

in greasy coat 

Yes, I’ve been here before, 

scary thoughts, not able to retreat, 

restore the order

sit in the sun, the earth revolving, hoping to jump 

on once again, 

• 
  

armed with poetry 

the fragments

I feel I can leave, 

I have enough of myself, 

gathered to me

of Heroic epic character, the blue man

planting sunflowers, Johnny Appleseed

limping, limping

wounded, keeping on

bolstering dream

Florida god, swimming the emerald sea, 

the oats blowing gold

Louisiana adventure, 

Texas familiarity and Blue Bonnet

on through,

Indian’s design and there the

Nevada distance 

the grand emptying of thought, 

California then, Eden, 

this earth, 

I saw the butterflies all 

revolved in painted order

and--- 

still to pack the boxes

the books again--off to the store to sell 

something still to propel a dream

Oh, I cried in sadness

of failure of-- 

I can’t say it-- maybe I’m just

wrong, got it all backwards?

This love of lagoon space

and The Sea 

presenting circles, 

surrounding  black 

paint swoosh, 

recognizing, bird height --

flutter, and swoop

evening light, scattering 

of yellow and blue

stripe, 

the leaves

all through the seasons

West Across America

• 
  

the variety of

the weather’s thought--

Pulling in after dark, to Florida palms

the headlights searching, falling asleep to

crickets and frogs, raccoons in shadows 

eyes lit, wandering through

full moon in pines, balm and humidity, tossed 

into deepest night

the next morning, I’m reorganizing the car, 

the mind, 

getting out the paints 

catching a glimpse,

I hear a cheep-cheep, like in Long Island 

and with my binoculars go-- 

It is! Yes, an Osprey on a dead branch tearing 

a fish between its claws, a silhouette, the emerald water

above another reeling, cheep-

cheep, cheep

in green gray haze of parting morning clouds

the humid breeze billowing

red bird-- rudy, rudy

• 
  

the Louisiana road, crossing bayou

I wanted to make another painting 

but the fog and pouring rain were very Louisiana,

as I drove through the narrow corridors of southern pine

and mangrove swamp,

into the gulf’s low mixing clouds 

and finally out into

the clear Texas space 

clouds clearing to reveal 

wild flower lined roads, bluebells and birds, birds

Austin birds and hills

scissor--tailed flycatcher and paintbrush flowers

and speeding, into the Sun

the west, zipping along, had to stop and paint 

such a scene-- mesa like western hill 

spotted sky and lupine in wind

A hurried painting, but I was here! 

A bucket of flowers up on the dash 

I am absorbed into all this

So dazzled, I’m--

• 
  

hours and hours

and miles across Texas

the rusting windmill 

the sun behind in the west

black and bluish--

I remember, that sound

the cry of the peacocks

the dance in the sunset

of bird silhouette, breaking shapes--

I’ve been looking out for the comet,

something I’ve never seen 

and There!

• 
  

I crawl into the back 

of the wagon, swathed in down, 

I pull up the designs of

my protecting Indian blanket, 

Pulling over my head, moving slightly 

in the chill, to glimpse 

the comet , 

still out there--

its tail shortening 

in perspective, 

by it’s turn to deeper space

a happening, 

which turns the story

looking for those moments, strung along

Life on the Road, this anxiety within me or

out there, why can I find no 

connection, the mirror and lamp

the end of sacred space

sold as commercial, the blocks of 

more, more

• 
  

Road Song, 

this is the splendor of beauty

I wish to die into, 

to be part of 

my thoughts melt, 

the paradise of moments cherished 

here, quiet long, slow 

here, sun spilling out 

here, the cold evaporating

as the orb mounts the sky, 

I’m on my way

coffee in hand, steam fogging windshield,

in the cold wind 

blowing past the needle point 

of light growing

up in elevation to pines, 

stopping to relieve myself 

behind some juniper 

the wild wind blowing--- peeing 

on my self with glee

• 
  

lost in distances

wheeling

in the still blue-- white feathered sky

land changing to rocky desert

acacia flare, yellow

adjusted to green-gray sage

spring green verdure

a place of my own out here

to have these paintings 

my life surrounding me

poems

and the space turned 

inside out

a hall of mirrors reflecting 

endlessly

the soul meeting the 

blank sky

Chinese mountains 

water falls over rocks 

and flowers 

another’s imagination 

projecting 

through the days and spaces 

of figures doing 

Shiva dance, doing that,

the rhythm, the unknown 

painter in Punjab hills 

painting my soul, eternally 

repeating arms 

the days bring the world into being, 

and gone, day and night

the comet speeding through, 

• 
  

This was the first Southern Trip I would repeat may times in going to New Mexico each spring.

There is a certain coherence for once but still punctuated with despair in the out of synch feeling with the culture one encountered which had become the Western Road of gas stations and hotels, convenience stores.

1997 Brooken Beauty ...another round

1997 Brooken Beauty  ...another round  

a new

nature-- there culture is seeing,

but the continuing change-- 

all death

of moments saved by 

painting them-- 

seeing, preserving

the wonder we faced, life

a painting seen on ones last bed

the pictures whirling-- past, 

the fading colors through reeds

the sunflowers,

by their repetition, comic--

brown, now, tragic stripes

the bread and the wine-- 

toppled still-life

unrealized, blank

dark now

inner form, emerges 

the striped torso

flying, 

over broken

ideal, 

BEAUTY, in this cycle

• 
  

to be used as pawns

to make critics bouquets

each of us only a page?

of a world? mosaic they say, pigeon holed,

in his place, playing one note only

NO, I want to play all the parts, At Once!

spoiled child and withdrawn from the game--

idle conversation, bores

Great voices showing direction!

each in democratic depth !

The modern mediocrity

to be, hung, as meat revolving 

all the broken pieces 

decorative, lowest denominators

but look the sun shines on us all

• 
  

a far off, waterfall spilling

silent-- yet continuing through

blackened space

to wildflower glow of back lit sun

and narrative builds and breaks

bird of great height

west of dream, this imagination 

a god flies unconcerned

power suit, joker, King

coyote warrior, 

blue man mind, 

artist poet 

the critical, bummer queen

cool princess, corrupting force

culture’s fashion, whore

the natural nude in 

sun warm, truth as nature 

OUT THERE

the whole cycle

muse in sun and naked flesh

the paintings revolving

through night

returning flower

hero in the sun

fading dream 

to blank

figure striped, there holding truth 

beauty in order and idea

come forward, 

recognition in the sun

steps out from the ground 

reaching from nature to cultural height

the repeated shapes, declare an end? 

walk about

a down turn 

the old dark bars, 

Achilles had stepped from

that proud darkness into a braver light-- 

a wrong turn?

I’m feeling so far from now,

looking-- for connection 

they’re all gone-- 

One went West!

• 
  

Maybe why I write this poem. Finding the order from despair and cynicism to the reaching of poetry in naturalistic form and symbol. All this attaining some similarity to the Epic form and a form of an art to follow for myself. A way to get through life as one gets through a journey, that cliched though archetypal symbol I hadn’t been able to shake.