Thursday, September 13, 2012


It’s stupid to not call Postmodernism what it really is, silly art. It merely betrays one’s ignorant assumptions to avoid calling silly art silly art because of one’s failure to acknowledge that from time to time silly is preferable to serious. For the most part, so long as our happiness is not under duress, silliness is more likely to be preferable to seriousness, I think. And in our nation of abundance and excess, there is really very little need for seriousness. That is not to say that exploited nations are at all on the same boat as us.
But in the end, who cares, there will always be silliness and seriousness in the world at all times. Who does it benefit to label a “milieu” with an aggregated and averaged sensibility? For one, it benefits marketers preying on undecided consumers who would prefer to buy something that pleases the largest number of others than something that pleases him or her self. Undoubtedly, many consumers myself included cannot tell what we want at any given time so turn to an ism just so we have something to go on. For another, academics and journalists need isms to designate topics of discussion. Thematizing comparative studies of works of art by chronology seems to “make sense” as a sign of thoughtful deliberation and organizational acumen. But wouldn’t it really be more practical to talk about something rather than some time? Refer to meaningful discussions with your friends and family - we live in times when all is such and such vs the merits of chicken or steak. Time has no logic.
Finally, postmodernism makes us feel special. Most of the rest of the world isn’t even modern yet and we’re already post-modern, boy do they have a long way to go to catch up. Really all that will do is ghettoize the labor of a million artists to untranslatability and ultimately insignificance. Who all in the world are shouting LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN!? And who are just blabbing away about nothing?

Monday, September 10, 2012

Toward the Empress Card (2 more poems)

The giver that gives till there is none to give
She gently reminds us to conserve.
The trees and brooks towering peaks and seas
Are ornaments for beds of ore, pools of grease.
Tumbling and rumbling as if furiously,
He stays solid beneath my home.
Tearing and breaking and always remaking
The undulation of my soul.
Nature is fat, nature is rich, nature is cruel,
The commodities of nature, the conservation of nature,
The ambiguities of nature and the nature
Upon which I sit, which is not nature but
The poetry of Mr. Olmsted. But poetry
Too is of nature inspired and of nature made.
The law of supply and demand
And the law of conservation of matter and energy
Are corrupted by the animal spirit. She laughs,
He mocks and scorns us pointing laughing,
They shake the heaven in ridicule, chastising,
Haranguing, hoping that one day we’d understand
That there never was ill will nor malicious intent.
That is to say, our vengeance is quite pointless.

Summer is the time when poets meet.
Teenagers and middle-agers alike elope
To distant deserts and deserted warehouses;
To faraway star systems and sylvan glens-
Where feet speak better than lips do and
Lips work harder than hands can and hands
Mold faster than a brain can move and
Brains play for no reason other than that they do.
Summer cries for winter’s wither that
Only in the spring was noticed. Spring tried
To unyoke the tired past and rekindle the still
Damp heart. Summer is the time for adventures
And wild picnics, larger the better. For when
Autumn’s cool breeze penetrates your skivvies,
It is time to decide with what or whom to nest.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

It's time

The Faded
Can you remember back to a time
Before everything became the way it is now?
Before the petals withered and fell;
Before the stem grew tall and moist;
Before the seed germinated and fell;
Before the soil engulfed us in darkness;
Before the voice now anonymous said to us
“Follow me, I know the way to happiness.”
It was a lonely time filled with sorrow in vast empty chambers, remember?
We heard whispers that echoed for an eternity,
can you still hear it?
You can’t go back. Can you go back?
Do a one eighty. Or is it a three sixty? Or seven twenty?
It can’t be any one of these doors.
When you leave the timeless chamber, it is gone from you forever.
But the echo keeps echoing the same song even if you don’t hear it, remember?
If you follow its faint washed out ring where will you go?
You can’t hear?
Ssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Quiet.
Quieter. Quieter still. So quiet
that you hear it again.
Step lightly. Lighter than a ninja. Listen. Observe. The walls are not walls.
The paths lead back into themselves. The light illuminates a world that does not exist.
Only the echoes, if you can hear are real.
Is real. Is not real.
What is not real?
It doesn’t matter just go.
It’s only an adventure after all.
It’s only a poem after all.
It’s only a song after all.
It’s only my life, after all.
Sorry. I’m tired of following you around.

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