Explore Poems: Painting & Sculpture

黑色的岩石上，雨珠碎裂
青色的岩石上，星星一滴一滴溅落
一千年、一万年，古老的风在唱:
“一万个、一千个，相似的夜晚”

骆驼的背后，有历史的风暴升起
山羊的唇角，留着沙葱花的清香
别问我们祖先们的秘密
闪电已经刻在…

Rain breaks on black rocks
Stars fall, one by one, on blue stones
A thousand years, ten thousand years…

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with…

What if, Betye, instead of a rifle or hand
grenade—I mean, what if after
the loaded gun that takes two hands
to fire, I lay down the splintered broom
and the steel so cold it wets
my cheek? What if I unclench the valleys
of my...

i. samo© as an alternative to blah ... blahblahblah. blahzooey ... bblahblah quasi-blah ... etc.

(in…

Tell me about the first time you met Basquiat. Not this request again ...
So: Kobe has the ball, Staples…

When we come together, what shapes
the space around, defines the ground between us?
Which hand sketches…

the wounds of a walk foot man ii

On a flight from perpetually clogged and flatly bright LA
to the proudly humble and satisfyingly depressed
St. Paul,...

That was the season I couldn’t think or write indoors,
the garrulous springtime every strophe,
every felicitous story’s pulse
could only be crafted in tranquil cloisters,
illuminating belvederes, or rambling villas.
Luckily, it was an unbridled spring,
all immoderate daisies and sunlit pediments,
a bustling April, May,...

Things are growing strange these days,
like Van Gogh’s yellow trees. Oh, do not
be surprised by these yellow immensities,
how out of proportion things in the picture
seem. What you see in a way makes sense:
the enormous, barren trees eclipsing
the unimportant buildings at...

SIR, the 28 spheres of Kamen’s harmony

Susceptible, inferred, immense, actual - the electron microscopy provides images of the virus long in memories.

It shows grey spinning, transforming this (I point to the past fifteen months) into orbs.

Here they are, grown enormous, before you in place, not within you in space. For what else can it become but the potential for indifferent attractiveness.

A memory, this spread; a novel micrography.

The SIR diagram is a mirror that creates a migratory pattern in the mind, as one would imagine birds flying, out of sight.
Of birds then. The diagram is a symbol that brings nets down, and what gets trapped in nets, as it is expelled from our hands, and rid by water, is a thing, that reflects, traces, and symbolizes.

Both the virus, and us.

The universe participates in making the artist well, and an instigator.

The participation of the invisible moves the virus into view.

A speck, a spread, a tiny writing in the air, a diagram, an avian metaphor, an object installed to illuminate. All of this, completely noiseless.

And this is why I write to you, in order to not speak the word, and have it just be seen.

Delirium in the downtown mall today:
      Burt Reynolds! All the henna-haired girls
            sneer, while their mothers, enthralled, say,

“I saw you in this, I saw you in that–
      you were marvelous, simply...

I dip my paper strip in colours of scoliosis, white
my spine, mounted snow-covered

heart fields in the midground against rolling lung hills
the foreground, a gold crouching

sinew what I thought to be a ruin of stretched canvas
all whirls of grey, I carry...

My sweat soaked the sheets.

You used to be like everyone else

but then

the way you hurt me (fingers, teeth):

I grew accustomed to it

then I craved it

then I got bored

and other men tried to put death into my mouth.

Angelic Richie with bite...

night watch

You can fall in love
in a museum, but only

with the art
or its silence—or the stranger

you don’t mean to follow

suffering past the Old Masters
& the unnamed

servants. Rembrandt’s face
half in shadow—

you can fall for what
isn’t there already, or

with the 13th century—the...

The geometer wishes he were David
cut from stone by lightning, his mind

gyring wide into figures of space
out of time, ever gauging the shock

of the word for the pathos, ever
slinging the rock of his wound

at the sugared glass of me.
I'd rather...

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous...

1.

Details frighten me.
As the trembling blue
Strokes of
The cathedral imply

It has been there
And it has not been there
Since the thirteenth century.
Details frighten me.


2.

To live only near water.
The brush
The trees, the river.
Sunlight will not break us—
Rather
We move illumined

Return daily, Monet
Returning daily
To save...

As salmon awaken to the pulsing dawn,
he hears night heron farther down the Skagit River.

The grey sky turning to white spirals
calls winter one word blessed with distance.

In the dark, his home rests in echoing waves.
White blossoms cover willow, woodpile, the...