Guess I should have called a plumber.

I would like to share with you one of my favorites.

SHOCK
C.K. Williams


Furiously a crane
in the scrapyard out of whose grasp
a car it meant to pick up slipped,
lifts and lets fall, lifts and lets fall
the steel ton of its clenched pincers
onto the shuddering carcass
which spurts fragments of anguished glass
until it's sufficiently crushed
to be hauled up and flung onto
the heap from which one imagines
it'll move on to the shredding
or melting down that awaits it.

Also somewhere a crow
with less evident emotion
punches its beak through the dead
breast of a dove or albino
sparrow until it arrives at
a coil of gut it can extract,
then undo with a dexterous twist
an oily stretch just the right length
to be devoured, the only
suggestion of violation
the carrion jerked to one side
in involuntary dismay.

Splayed on the soiled pavement
the dove or sparrow; dismembered
in the tangled remnants of itself
the wreck, the crane slamming once more
for good measure into the all
but dematerialized hulk,
then luxuriously swaying
away, as, gorged, glutted, the crow
with savage care unfurls the full,
luminous glitter of its wings,
so we can preen, too, for so much
so well accomplished, so well seen.





p.s. it was a plunger but nevertheless.

In and out, in and out, in and out, in and out inandoutinandout.

You can make what you want and call it what you wish.

Art.
Shit.
Smart.
Dense.
Dull.
Smut.
Filth.
Provocative.
Evocative.
Stimulating.
Irritating.
Ironic.
Idiotic.

But as you create, ask questions. When you view, do the same. Consider the intention of the creator. What is the subject of the work? What is it about? Why do you think the work was created? What does the work mean? What is the creator trying to say? What do you think is the creator's view of the world?

Or don’t.

Creating thoughts, words and images using a living, breathing human subject has its purpose. Recording visual data, commentary on an historical event, describing a religious ritual, and storytelling are all examples of a creator’s purpose to tell a truth creatively...through any medium.

Rewriting or embellishing also has a purpose in art. Individual perspective perhaps, but where truth remains central. Though, not always. The creator’s intent is to persuade, the purpose to shift perspective. Provoke. Fiction, telling a story not entirely based on fact, may contain imaginary or real characters. Not all fiction may be considered art, but entertainment with the intention to change mood.

As living, breathing humans we have the gift to create art for a myriad of purposes and intents. And, every human being interprets art in their own unique way. Art can provoke the viewer to reconsider previous assumptions or consider new ideas, it can challenge the viewer to explore new emotions or look at the world in a new way (through the creator's eyes).



It all has its place.

(But, what the hell do I know?)








p.s. ahh yes...suck, swirl, release and flush.

Hurling sanctity at destruction.

forced in two flash









p.s. sticks and stones and broken bones there's no place like home.

(just a throw away.)

About a recusant.

It is a youthful requirement,
A developmental entitlement,
To want to be separate, unique.
“Your perspective is quite oblique.”
True, but they say it’s inevitable
And becoming is so undeniable,
That now, when I look into me
More and more it is him that I see.



p.s. of course I am and he wouldn't want it any other way, a knock-off.

Slurry.

Let me tell you what it was like. Lying on a rack of a bed, the sweat from all of a sudden and a half minutes of sex still clinging to my naked body, I am no longer relieved. Instead, I am shaking (but it’s not cold). The blankets have fallen away and I don’t dare get up to retrieve them. I know that if I do I will not return to the bed. And it is all gone anyway, finished off an hour ago amidst impetuous greed and loud music. The others, the music, all of it was irrelevant to relentless want. The pattern repeated, ten minutes of synthetically induced exaltation followed by the entirety of my consciousness engulfed by its insufferable demands. Fake rapture.

And in that bed, everything I had poured down my throat to even me out is trying to make its way back up. Another reason to stay put, but I can’t sleep with my head twitching and an arm around my neck. So, I will pace. I sort of know the neighborhood, and because I do it will occur to me much later how fucking stupid I was. Not just because some desperate fuck could have put a gun to my head, or because it was way too much, or because I am not entirely familiar with the body in the bed, but because I will have to live with it.

Nevertheless, I am not thinking of that when I pull on my clothes and walk out the door. Swallowing hard and still grinding my teeth, my jaw is tired and my lips are chapped. My feet step ahead of me slightly, but I am keeping up. In order to slow my quick heart my breathing becomes forced, gasps long and slow. Think. Breathe. Walk. Walk. Walk. Think. Breathe. If I just keep walking it will go away, all of it…even the body in the bed.





p.s. yep that was the last and forgive me the past and present tension.

What?...exactly.

Way down at the center of the Earth, the core as it is called, the pull is intense. The rest of it, what I see every day, endlessly revolves, but down there it is all held in tight. I want to be that close, leave the cycle, become random. I am a part of the pattern and I know that is why I feel this way. So much of it is polluted.

There is the challenge.

I tried to dig it up once. I wanted to know if it would pull my soul out and then would it also find a place in rotation? Follow me around batting at the back of my head? But, my palms blistered before I made it. I would like to say I did not give up, but I did.

Yesterday, I read in the news that someone had finally reached it. Once they arrived, they made legal claim of the core of the Earth. Stuck a flag in it and gave it a proper name, in a proper way...I hate proper. So, now I want it even more. The rest of it can float off for all I care.

Well, not all of it.

I will try again. This time, a bigger shovel and a pair of gloves might do the trick, save my hands. I will not quit; it is worthy work. When I get there, I will release it. I no longer wish to be a part of its rotation. Instead, I wish for the whole of it to become the rest of it.


p.s. each day the same way and then look at it again if its there, focus.