Through These Landscapes

Through These Landscapes

Everything is moving, even in stillness-

The landscape, the entities, the bodies

               Flight action Kinetic

The simple horizon with vast sky

               Moon, sun---the in-betweens

Chasms between longitude and latitude

               The simple horizon encompasses all

The living in the after lives

               This is where one will always be---upon the landscape.

And the sun and the moon are not myth and some times sun and moon lay upon each other

In deaths…..copulations\

Looking  upon through.  The glass veil.  THrough the glass veil one can look to many outsides.

The violence of birds angels and ghosts with wings whom losing feathers

               Feathers that burst into flames in the crackling air

               You see---Memory always twines through, sky, landscape.

                              The visual is felt inside somewhere inside the interior of biology, nervous system wirings and the architecture of bones……

This is where soul and ghost become

One each other—Ghost duels soul

Soul duels ghost—

    Spectral awaits human. Human awaits spectral.

…...

where the angelic swim the light

    where the demonic swim the light

where the purity of the impure impervious angelic demonic ghosts with wings swim the light

    where Jacob’s ladder is abstracted distortions juxtaposed upon various reversals of itself within the dalliance and refractions of various light spectrums

               Where birds swarm the light

Where spirits swarm the light

Where birds and spirits tear

At the light

Upon the light

           

    Upon the color spectrums---where the statues move about

inside the blasting vibrancy of the wilderness (es)

………..

               A liberation from banal, the collective body mind banal-the singular banal dread body—

The biological banal—escape from the banalities and demands from the multitude of fascist banal created paradigms—derelict---that cork and curdle humanness.

           

Those malevolent spiritus making    dumb     Those that rule the world with the wrong basics

Let the color spectrum archaeology bestow

    Let the unknown be called forth from ethereal froth

There are no accidental divinations.

               Visions after Liberation—to show the unseen X-Ray of things—Kinetic X Rays—the mystical blood saturating the soul (s)//the Ghost (s)

               The depiction that is nature---and that is beyond nature—and that is the supernatural—and that is God—below the dismal bottom of doubt—there is God –beyond God—and the kinetic energy of such things crackles in the wild wind currents lacing Vast Sky.

NO Symbolic Rigour—

Many different strangers

Will see a multitude of various images in……these works…….

               One will see the dead.  The before born.   The Living and those things that are almost forever.—

One will see the memories of others.   The dissolving of the singular till

one finds the tilting emergence of the singular--

Distortion---is the oracle of clarities.

               Alchemy

                                               Alchemy which through mystery defeats THE WHEEL OF FATES FORTUNES

The holiness of birds angels demons in violence ecstasies

                   The devouring of any meditation no matter how brief or enduring duration.

                                   These depictions are places where one can walk about the field.

The interiors of the outside landscapes

** QUoTe unquoTe artist statement to accompany an art showing at XS on Charles Street beginning Feb. 11..  Five total paintings in all.  All for sale.  Three of the five are shown at page top.

Folklore, Education And The Stasis/Dissipations Of Societies plus a poem in rough draft

Rough draftings of an essay to be expanded---Plus the draft of a poem based on a bit of  Maryland Folklore.

Folklore, Education And The Stasis/Dissipations Of Societies.

The appeal of folklore and regionalism.  That is the old education.  Of the land and that is also the history--The education of the history of the land.  The pertinent educational lyricism of locality.  Locality is where anyone is.

There are intense subtleties and nuances when stating the obvious.  Dangerous even.

I grew up in North Georgia.  The old folkloric Appalachian traditions mostly died out and still dying out in the applications of everyday life to this day.  I was not the better for it.

There is an unsettling abstraction beneath folklore(s).  A haunted truth not spelled out entirely. Eternal proverbs.  Stories---storied

There are things speaking in the woods.  There are things speaking in vacant city lots.  There are things speaking in the old railroad beds.  There are things speaking in the library. There are things in forgotten small towns ---crossroads that ge drunk on morning fog. Sentient things.

I am speaking about the struggle to hold onto a persistence of awareness that grasps a wholeness.  Elusively elusive.

What are the stories any where telling?  Let us denounce a society that denounces mystery.

The Ghost of Peddler's Run

tha ghost is a lantern down that lonely road

tha man ghost hauls something around down upon

that lonesome road--

whole histories happened down thar

and were forgotten

like how cold a winter can beat

till yer bones are bruised

or the Klutzy toothing of lover's gone

shadows are memorized into shadows

and blood bled wet dew on the grass

whilst the moon was almost full

A headless body

wasz found by

Mary Pickett's woods

found by the creek burble

they buried tha body

without tha head

could not find that fucking

head

body got buried neath a giant rock

buncha strangers

3 crows cawed 6 times that

morning

that day like a tombstone

where acid rain

devoured marble

 Ghost of fat

rain always gits

fatter

will eat you

someday

tha how of that matter

--don't matter-- or give a damn

           

your dead will get dead

everything wasz written

down so it could die.

ENERGY ACTION DISTORTIONS

                         ENERGY ACTION DISTORTION

"Energy is eternal delight;  and from the earliest times human beings have tried to imprison it in some durable hieroglyphic.  It is perhaps the first of all the subjects of art."--Kenneth Clark

Energy of Form

 Energy of Memory

Energy of the faulty Line

The re invention of objects perceived into new objects or new versions of those objects.

Energy of things distorting the thing.

Energy of thing shaking out of the thing distorting.

                                      Electronical Orange Shadow (with Jenny Moon Tucker)

 

                                               TWO Male/FemalE (with Jenny Moon TUckeR)

                                            PaLooKaviLLe (OnCe) FoR SteVe Von ChE

                                            CroW RaVeN In SPrinG StoRm ThunDeR

                                               CRoWRaveN FlIes tha dusKy red MorNdusK

                                                   TricKsteR in bLue skY splashed with blooD

                                                               CroW in de mornin

                

                                                           Crow in de Mornin readY ta HunT

Excerpts From Tha LosT Book of Lostness May 2014 (with a few collabs with Jenny Moon Tucker)

COntiNUaL ExcerpTs from THa LosT BooK of LosTness.  The booK that does not Exist.

These were mostly all created very spur of the moment.  A frenzy.  Some of my recurring motifs keep cycling.  Birds, Horses, Moons.  Improvisations.  Notations of mystery.  of blunt sharpness. OF trasH.  Mystical Trash.

                                              Brown Horse with Shadows (with Jenny Moon Tucker)

                                                 Bloody Rider On Horse

                                                             Feather In water

                                                                            MuD

         Pryamid Green Emerald DusK (with Jenny Moon Tucker)

CATASTRophE (S)

BIRD MURDER (S)

 

AktioN skY (s)

HirToGlyphicaL ()S

(shiveRs)))

 SimPLetoN DUcK

FULL MOON FEATHERS AND STORIES

 

                  

Excerpts From the Lost Book of The Lost April 2014

I have been on hiatus.  Animal ghost(s) send one forth and offer some protection even if one has been struck with crooked maleovoent mis guidance.

A

                                                     "animal-ghosT"





The text is lost because it is lost.  The words are lost because they are text.  Image is the visceral evisceration of the text.

                           "ThE Lost booK is a PLace To maKe miStaKes/ALL Text is useless"

                     "The text is only a place that has forgotten text/The angeL without a mouth that is                                                             always learning the somethang"

                                                                   "bLue featheR winD"

                                                                        "U"
                                               

                                                    "ShipwRecK foRth EffacEmenT"

                                                                   "WaShinG oF SpiRiTs"






**Lately, I have returned to manifesting larger works, specifically on glass and even on canvas.  Hope to git some of those up soon.  Music wise I have a split with Jenny Moon that Mr. Rick Weaver is putting out in the near future.  My side is titled SEE ROCK CITY BURN.  12 string instrumentals, a turn of the late 19th century protest song sung by workers, original blues, harmonica train (after Deford Bailey) animal bone percussive instrumental and Plenty oF Music Box shenanigans. 
       New music project involving Rosemary Krust.  First tape is all reed instruments--various harmonica keys, accordion and reed organ all recorded in the coal chamber of the haunted hippie house.  One of the new New Twilight Memories releases is now going to be a double LP.

WAS A brutal winter in a frozen slough of despond.  I hope to make good like a Pilgrim's progress.

Four Poems from ANathema Blues drafts 4FOUR and 5FIVE

GREEN GRIEF (anathema blues draft four)

StaY longer stranger she never spoke

He was sewed shut with sloss iron like a chunk of time and high on shards
---Locked inside the outside of the oak dooR

never saw the money,--Over Yonder ouT in tha Street
hallucinating the heartbeat of mountains ---

shame is mY religion---I shall not be moved

witchblade knife and I round the corner

skip it across green moonlight.
I never lost one minute

Empathy

I like chicken language. Slanted sharp Farm tools---Smell of Autumn Hay

The sudden clearing when you reach the river

Train roar on the trestle over the Coosa
River suffering  ecstatic confusion of a 100 year flood

your eyes already sleeping in the valley,
and the dark haired woman with a nervous cough---
and I'm from the south,
sing the darkest doodle

woodpecker pecks till he gets his fill,---LOUD AS FUCK

I go and sing a new song for each room. EverY room has a lonely Elvis ghost crooning Moody Blue

I Learn from Mr. Presley to go and to sing to all them ghosts I do not know:  

 Dog daYs (anathema blues draft four)

Drove my black truck down to tha Coosa river when tha engine went broke—I thought I was in a coffin—I Set tha motherfuck on fiRe--

Birds of my secret childhood thought the sun was going up---

In the next chapter trouble went down.  Tha road went wrong like a three legged dog with rabies----

Dry bones under a pardon’s scalding violin...you own the inside of death---

Dark water under dark water where the light breathes brightly dark you move those mountains while I rambled river songs ---

I kill tha motherfucking moon and don't you forget that!? I learned this on the playground---I learned it from a blue sapphire preacher who got killed crossing the afternoon street.---I learned it whiskey eyed red in shame---

We will kill the old red rooster---Sister, every GodDamN dog sure must have his day  ---

DOG daYs (anathema blues draft five)

Drove my black Ford down to tha Coosa river when tha engine went broke—I thought I was in a coffin---

—I Set tha motherfuck on fiRe--

Sparrows of my secret childhood thought the sun was going up---warble whacking in tha outta pLacE MagnoLia trees---

In the next chapter of the weekly television series trouble sure went down. 

Tha road went wrong like a three legged dog with rabies----

Dry bones under a pardon’s scalding violin...you own the inside of death---

Dark water under dark water breaching dark murk water where  light breathes fierce lightning brightly till gaping dark roots deeply sinister.

You move those mountains while I rambled river songs ---HARK AXE HAPPENSTANCE

I kill tha motherfucking moon and don't you forget that!? I learned this on the playground---I learned it from a blue sapphire preacher who got killed crossing the afternoon street.---I learned it whiskey eyed red in shame---

We will kill the old red rooster---Sister, every GodDamN dog sure must have his day  ---

Blackout mirror skY ---reflections plum red fires--------------------

THree divergent drafts of the poem Daughter, Anathema Blues

DIVERGING DAUGHTERS

Here are three divergent versions of the poem Daughter from Anathema Blues.  This is obvious mythos storytelling as I have no daughters in the biological sense. The father is a traveler from a night of a new moon.  The night of a new moon is the most shadowed heavy night.

 I recall the boat and water imagery sources from the pond at the Black House/Black Castle, Stone Mountain, Georgia from 2005-2008 autumns. 

THe unicorn image is all ambiguous sexual mythos.  The peacock imagery sources from the memories of seeing and photographing real live peacocks in a Louisville Kentucky Cemetery way back in 2003ish...? 

The language is flowery and exaggerated into fantastic stupidity.  Shape shifting into birds goes contra against the mythic crypto nonsense of the medieval unicorn. 

THe masculine rhinoceros feminized into the slinky feminine of the horse with a phallic horn. 

The natural runs contra and friction against the fantastical reaches/wretches of the unicorn.

The narrator drifting into sleep within the first two versions reveals a lack of imagination--a real lousy excuse for the fantastical to conveniently manifest.

I agree and disagree with all these comments.  This poem may not even make the bound version of the book.

ANy poem is my daughter, son or childhood.

The photographs source from the Proctor lost photograph archive.  I believe the girl is a great great Aunt who passed away unfortunately around the age of 11 or 12 years old.  The man in the fotograph is her father.  He was an officer in the Rome, Georgia Police Department.

My daughteR (Anathema Blues Draft II)

When I go to sleep. When I drift to sleep. ThaT weird TimE I must feel vital in LifE… My daughter shape shifts into a unicorn.  My beloved mutilates into a unicorn. 

My daughter is my wife.  My beloved mutilates and untwines into a peacock……into a screech owL.  

When I fall hard into my death bed, my daughter leaves our small old farmhouse through the backdoor and the back porch screen door slams and daughter walks into the rain

my daughter is the water, boat beating with rain----

Her spectacle Spectacular spector ravishing, her promenading toward us with pale face straining eyes, She was rising into slumber sexualizing the various chorusing morning choirs and the cry of warning and forget-me-not came into his filled with water and the directions that were futile---

My daughteR (ANathema Blues Draft III)

When I drift to sleep. ThaT only TimE I must feel vital in LifE… My daughter shape shifts into a unicorn.  My beloved mutilates into a unicorn.

My daughter is my wife.  My beloved mutilates and untwines into a peacock--

When I fall hard into my death bed, my daughter leaves our small old farmhouse through the backdoor and the back porch screen door slams and daughter walks into the milky rain

my daughter is the water, boat beating

I am the fishing boat full with rain and leaves.

DaughteR (Anathema Draft SIX)

My daughter shape shifts into a unicorn.  My beloved mutilates into a unicorn.  My daughter is my wife.  My beloved mutilates the un twining into a peacock

I recall a memory inside a Louisville, KentuckY graveyard--

When I fall hard into my death bed, my daughter leaves our small old farmhouse through the backdoor and the back porch screen door slams and daughter walks into the rain

My daughter is the water, boat beating

I am the fishing boat full-- with rain and autumn  bright crimson leaves