Archive | December 2015

Polyphemous

This is one of a series of on-going recycling art projects.  Many of them are studies in the psychology of apophenia and pareidolia.  In many ways, this is an extension of the concept of anthropomorphism in literature.  All three of these are a reflection of human consciousness and how it sees the world around it.  I also like to call my projects dysfunctional art.  They are objects that have been removed from their function and have become something other.

Moscow Mountain

Moscow Mountain

Moscow Mountain

 

 

Fuck an A brother,

it’s all going to be ocean front property

when California slips on up the coast

and the Cascades sink into the sea.

We’re going to have us

a nice little inlet here.

‘Course it’s going to be a little hot

while Hanford’s still bubbling.

It’s safe though;

it’s safe.  They keep telling us.

Tell that to the poor bastards

who died at Nagasaki.

 

Present:

 

Each morning we watch it come up

as we drive over a rise in the hills:

mountain in mist, mountain in sun,

in mountain itself.

I never go there;

you have to be a sorcerer.

All the roads say private.

 

Presence:

 

A storm coming on from the East,

while looking down into the valleys

sun-patches crossed the tops of trees.

Wheat fields in the West

being closed down in a cloud of dust

with green caterpillars crawling in a line:

evening air, red with dust.

 

The other book:

 

Old mountain, old trees

listening to the echoes of black seas

as they flowed from fissures

and never crashed back from the shore.

They remember what was in the bones of the earth,

echoes from the dream,

a dream of shadows marking the future.

 

first published in Wind Row, Spring, 1985.

 

 

Winter Solstice West of Potlatch

Trees grow corral leaves

white as breath hanging on air.

Pines are themselves cones

of aged slumber.

. . . walks to find pine needles

for the beasties, a little green

in a sleeping world.

. . . squeaky boots and hiss of llama toes

before they break through the crust.

. . . frost on their wool before sun

if it ever comes through fog.

From the town, noon whistle.

Christmas is hurry

in the timeless place,

and fire whistle blows:

indoor tree fires.

Ice is a claw without time;

spring is a whore

bears should slumber to enjoy.

And from the town noon

whistle blows around Christmas.

 

first published in Poems From the Last Frontier, National Arts Soc., 1989.