There is no possibility of self-directed evolution without tangible, material exposure and palpable, psychic vulnerability.
Fruition is not guaranteed, but neither is the familiarity [or longevity] of stasis.
— kt, february 2017
Poemo (prototypes) :
The secret ambition of all lyric poetry is to stop time. — Charles Simic
a good melancholy
a phantom history – a life, no mere limb
one i didn’t know i had, to begin with,
let alone, lost /out on/
a door to a paralleling universe
and no wormhole key
the hours
in the days before their deaths
which could now practically and reasonably
be measured in hours,
she began liminal dreaming
even during daytime
and she saw a white horizon
containing a silhouette of golden-amber woods alit like filigree
and a golden-amber house, likewise
and she knew the house was for her
and she was not afraid
sunday
my feelings, brimming / about to spill onto the floor/ i’ve got no strength, bread or bucket / to sop or mop them anymore/
worth
i measure my worth
in deer so at ease they’ll eat kale from the garden, less than five meters from my door
by a home-cooked meal eaten together, still hot
in heritage Jimson weed blooms on summer nights
& harvested, unblemished squash on autumn afternoons
in bats sighted overhead at dusk from the stoop
in thriving houseplants, all named and watered
in clean sinks, sheets, floors and birdbaths
by pages read, no matter
by the number of rabbits who see me and then ignore my presence
in folks, walking exhausted, or in rain, who accept my offer, climb into my truck with their groceries or booze for a lift home
in miles walked with the dog, and in patience as he interprets the “news” thoroughly with his nose
in native prairie plants restored, by my hand, New England asters, sweetgrass, have mercy,
in minutes spent on the phone with my son,
my golden boy
in bluebirds who sing on my bedroom windowsill especially on my birthday
in knowing how the Moon will look this evening even before she rises
in poems written by, for or about me
in acorns from the sapling white oak i planted, knowing one day, i won’t be able to count them all
with a plate of at least 6 different kinds of freshly cut fruit
in hummingbirds, monarchs, hummingbirds, monarchs, hummingbirds who visit to feed, rest or cocoon
in vibing unabashedly
to music playing loudly
in the barn, in the yard, in the car
in frogs perched on the back porch light, and toads spotted and avoided on the sidewalk in the dark
in trust placed in me
in Duchenne smiles from friends and strangers, but especially strangers, and in the intense knowing look from babies anywhere, but especially in line at Walmart
by how long i kept the christmas tree – fir, spruce, or pine – drinking and alive, far more so than a dozen long-stemmed red roses
by the crows that come back again and again, recognizing my face, voice and reliable aluminum pail / us, counting on one another
by a batch of perfectly brewed and bottled sweet, iced tea
in spying even one snake, one turtle or one heron all year long
and,
by love,
by love,
by love
and that’s why / for a while,
i will feel worthless
worth less
less worth
less.
“for all your fine washables”
the mundane,
it reminds
Arte Digitora
Arte Digitora, alternatively, arte digitora, artedigitora, #artedigitora
Arte Digitora is art/e that is organically, intentionally or incidentally created, conceptualized or derived from intentional or incidental digital/cellular communication and/or collaboration and hosted primarily – though not always exclusively – in digital space-time.
The art/e primarily consists of digital/cellular communication text content including email correspondence; word-processing documents; text and direct messaging conversation blocks or bubbles; shared photos, images, screenshots, icons/reacts/emojis; shares and links; voice clips/messages; and social media comments — using a variety of digital/cellular applications and platforms; anonymity or identity may be implied, preserved, protected or negotiated.
This art/e is created, conceptualized, utilized or reproduced by one or more participant humans based on singular, multiple, continuing or abandoned digital/cellular communications; it may be fixed i.e., “locked” and immutable, or the art/e can be fluid, altered, edited, deleted, interpreted, archived or restored in its original form or any subsequent altered/edited form by any of the the original communicators or subsequently, by those with access.
Arte Digitora are not NFTs, but NFTs may contain elements of arte digitora.
Any Arte Digitora may be migrated and reproduced in physical space in the form of inspired or derivative 2D or 3D works such as prints, photos, books, sculpture, crafts or objects, or as audio/visual, performance, tactile or projection art.
from Wikipedia:
Art is a diverse range of human activity, and resulting product, that involves creative or imaginative talent expressive of technical proficiency, beauty, emotional power, or conceptual ideas.
from Wiktionary:
- Having to do with digits (fingers or toes); performed with a finger.
- Property of representing values as discrete, often binary, numbers rather than a continuous spectrum.
- Of or relating to computers or the Information Age.
New Me.
And, most of the World,
well, at least, the entire mattering World
came together
for one brilliant night and
even part of the next morning
with a somewhat contemplative,
protracted, very long, somewhat meditative
five ENTIRE minutes squeezed in between
And, it came to pass that there
were nearly 18 continuous hours
of agreed-upon
global activism and change-making
that had not been witnessed for exactly
364.24153644 days, previously
The World’s manifesto:
Whereas, starting tomorrow, January 1
life will be better,
so much better, different, good, great even
Again, they each individually proclaimed:
starting tomorrow, January 1
life will,
might, may, could be better, so much better, different, good, great even
Ahem, that is, to be clear, not your life,
just mine.
new year, new me.
Me. Me. Me.
keep your Sun,
give me the Moon.
(inspired by mckersin: “Just helps that the world’s energy is all in agreement that we doing everything different now”)
The Very Last Zeptosecond of 11:59:59: pm on december 31st
the future ending
and re-beginning
in one, arbitrary moment
old year’s, new year’s ode
And she took a bath
and washed her hair
and cleansed her [w]hol[l]y self of that
grimy year
though 365 memories remain in the dark roots of thousands of her golden strands,
more are silver now
Out into the cold air,
pitch black, save for waxing gibbous Moon
naked
open pores
bare feet
wet hair
pouring her bathwater into a remnant patch
of snow-covered ground
drain and septic are unfit for this ceremony
Let this vintage
permeate the garden/
recharge the aquifer from which she bathes and drinks/ evaporate into cycles of the atmosphere that she breathes /
breathe, human, woman, breathe
believe this, yet better, know this:
everything is ouroboros.
nothing ever begins.
nothing ever ends.
nothing.
The Song of The Lark
it’s always been one of my very favorites – because of that gorgeous, dayglo salmon-colored Sun and her arrested, awed attention and ear-witness to the birdsong //
i’ve experienced Jules Breton’s “The Song of The Lark” twice — in The Art Institute of Chicago’s collection – during college – and most recently, in 2015, on loan to the University of Nebraska’s Sheldon Museum of Art;
Nebraska was home to author Willa Cather (Cather is a Nebraska native by way of colonialism and settlerism) and her third novel, was named for this 1884 painting//
while i was viewing the painting at The Sheldon, i conversed and queried serendipitously with the Chicago-born docent: does the lark sing most sweetly or urgently at sunrise or sunset; does this work depict a sunset in the west; or a sunrise in the east; is her fatigue residual, a worker rising so very early, again, on end – or is it from an already completed hard day’s work? or both, both, both?
let the mystery be.
her first december there
She can now tell the difference between
Lake-effect
and “real” snow
purely by observation
without having Googled the weather
senses attuning
She becoming corporeal
She can now tell the difference between
wishfulness
and alchemy
purely by existing
without having read leaves of pulp
spirit honing
She becoming ethereal
both, humbly naturalizing to leeward space
the velveteen poet 