Art and Being

Caught, like a trembling sprite, held until the shaking subsides, an idea,

perhaps a single thought, a wavering cognizance on the event horizon:


Then sprung loose, spread outwards like seed of the dragon, and sown to the stars

with a mere brush of the paint. It’s wild like that: poured, dribbled: chaotics in a can,


but in its way, determinist, scribbling wishes,

drafting an indelible statement of personal meaning,


venting its raucous, cacophonous needs

as if a million horns were caught


in a rush-houred tunnel’s

obtuse refusal to admit;


but goal oriented nonetheless,

eventually spilling as a straight line


right across our canvas’ border, singularly colored,

each segment a monochromatic statement of intent.


Take two of those which are adjacent:

long lists, instructions, an almanac,


endlessly pleading attention-asking-shelves,

rooms full of books, placating


that which it had calved with gifts

of tubes, of paint, now multi-hued,


to smear, spurt, stab, dab, to delicately

(perhaps accidentally) define


its world of abstracted ideas,

or conversely, in lines and figures and ornamental figurines,


a miniaturized art searching for an environmental

fit: Callot with his Angstrom


eyes, filling gardens with fantasy,

populating fairs at Nance and Impruneta


with milling, swilling crowds,

a combustible mixture of gentry and the hoi polloi.


O, but try to make sense of such

sport, of trees weeping, their branches innocent, but festooned


with the dead fruit of military judgments, of devils

quick-marching us off


to a dusty doom, angels trumpeting, twittering,

bird-like, from the vantage of an arboreal cloudburst:


Those populating the bucolic scenes below

are really the damned.


So exactitudes of form only confuse;

so what is known is mingled with what is unforeseen.


Ontogeny really capitulates.

A Bosch is born again


in each century, sometimes

with a pen in his hand, or a gun,


or a swagger stick,

painting men on toilet seats, or as Popes,


but unenviably

with their souls externalized for our perusal,


ready to be pissed on and flayed

and exposed in a laser hard light


where you are tested for everything

in sight from diphylobothrium latum


to amaurotic idiocy, but where the exposition

may be more dangerous than the disease.


Thus, inside-out, discombobulate, we stumble

philosophically across canvas: Then cut!


Cut from the frame. Knifed to the heart.

As a last ditch effort, rolled and shelved,


Locked in a storage

akin to hell,


rolled, forgot; Or are we

as arbitrarily, saved? What fate is fated?


Perhaps the reward of the brightest colors

is to be rejuvenated?


Waiting our time to be restored.