Category Archives: poemo

holy ghosts

in the end, we are all just holy ghosts

lone, holy, haunted ghosts wanting to be seen, felt

if anyone were to have thoughts or draw conclusions about this ghost, my collection of words, photos, ephemera, art, altars, or the microcosmic worlds i’ve built — now, or when i’m dead

in the end, and at the beginning,
it is and was,
all, for me to better understand

my Self, for myself, by my self

… as well to understand my relationship to others, to the world, to the Earth – the pain and beauty of it all, and to my creativity, the act of creating — and to existence itSelf

no one else is essential to interact with,
interpret, interrogate or validate any of it

the imperative in my work and my art is not to be known or understood by another — even though, even when, that exquisitely rare experience occurs – it can conjure deep feelings of true homecoming or true love /both, actually/

being seen, or being seen as creative, evocative, provocative, nouveau, derivative, debased or talentless is wholly different than being known and understood by someone

and although communion, consummation, and collaboration in experiencing, creating, or releasing art can be gratifying, challenging, inspiring and evolutionary,

i must always remember:

all my collaborators are ghosts; i am my own, lone, Earthly muse; i Am my audience of one

everyone else is collateral advantage

“in the end, you will find [only] yourself at the beginning”


ghosts: me, Frida Kahlo, Agave & The Moon

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the bearable light of being

we adapt, mitigate

beholding devastation

in a moment of transcendent light

we’ll call it beauty

i am no exception

golden hour light on a butchered monoculture landscape

telemarketer

she answers every unknown call
thinking it might be him
on a burner phone

calling to say
calling to tell
calling to ask
calling to weep
calling to laugh
calling to breathe

you
yes
wait
soon
now
everything
anything


explanation

she was never really glad to be here

here, as in, born

not really, no

still,

she paced herself
bided, abided the days which turned into decades
in the city

she moved out of the city

she moved out to the country

she paced her herself
bided, abided the days which turned into months and years
in the country

one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/

one more/

until she could not
one more
anymore


intruder

let them know she was killed
in a struggle with an intruder in a house
then let them know she was the intruder
then let them know she was the house


Poemo (prototypes) :



The secret ambition of all lyric poetry is to stop time. — Charles Simic


Poemo rhymes with memo.