Is having a blog anathema to creating visually? Should my art speak for itself? Well, I guess my art should speak for itself; but I love words. I'm ruled by Mercury, after all - the god of restlessness; and medicine, commerce, communication. A really Peter Pan kind of character in many respects. Some days, I don't have an image to put down, though I can always play with design and color. But today - not sure. There always seem to be words floating around in my brain:
word jazz: 1.0
Have these words traveled out of my dreams
The shades of an underworld meaning
striving to be heard to expiate
half-lived lives of noisy solitude
risen like bubbles of gas
from decaying minerals,
effervescent effluent from the bottom
of a Neptunian sea
water squeezed under pressured crust
super-heated explosion of steamy ventilations
exhalations, whistling through vents in a
screaming rise of exultation
expulsion of magma oozing
iron core of molten collective energies
lifting, spreading, building
new islands of expression
have they risen like vapors from the
surface of the water, wraiths of unknown bodies
ghosts of ideas, I’s that died when
The words were done, released back to the world
created in my synapses
A simple electricochemicoconcocted delusion
of cacophonous rhythms that surge and dissipate
changing colors with wine or chocolate
did they light upon my soul when it entered
my body, infiltrate through my ears like
worms digging in, leaving pebbly detritus to
fertilize some Indo-European tree of babble
a double-helix pregnant with words
when the idea of me was made real
sperm and egg breaking bread together
combusting in a spreading mold
that grew until they couldn’t be contained
exploding in a swirling galaxy of meanings
expanding universe of dark and light
matter too big to be held by I?
word jazz: 1.0
Have these words traveled out of my dreams
The shades of an underworld meaning
striving to be heard to expiate
half-lived lives of noisy solitude
risen like bubbles of gas
from decaying minerals,
effervescent effluent from the bottom
of a Neptunian sea
water squeezed under pressured crust
super-heated explosion of steamy ventilations
exhalations, whistling through vents in a
screaming rise of exultation
expulsion of magma oozing
iron core of molten collective energies
lifting, spreading, building
new islands of expression
have they risen like vapors from the
surface of the water, wraiths of unknown bodies
ghosts of ideas, I’s that died when
The words were done, released back to the world
created in my synapses
A simple electricochemicoconcocted delusion
of cacophonous rhythms that surge and dissipate
changing colors with wine or chocolate
did they light upon my soul when it entered
my body, infiltrate through my ears like
worms digging in, leaving pebbly detritus to
fertilize some Indo-European tree of babble
a double-helix pregnant with words
when the idea of me was made real
sperm and egg breaking bread together
combusting in a spreading mold
that grew until they couldn’t be contained
exploding in a swirling galaxy of meanings
expanding universe of dark and light
matter too big to be held by I?
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