Wednesday, September 28, 2016

My Brother Bob's Birthday

After I was done with “Place-Holders” (September 28’s Enterprise) I was still hungry to draw - not just draw, but throw myself into something more ambitious - having, as usual, no idea what that would be.

It turned out to be this drawing. A few minutes ago when I finished it, looked at the time and saw that September 28 had turned into September 29, I realized something about what probably was prodding me - September 29 was/is my brother Bob's birthday. (He died in 1989 of AIDS.) One clue about why these faces are as beatifically smiling as they directed me to make them became clear: they were wishing Bob a happy birthday.

There will surely be a poem (me being me) I'll write tomorrow (or later on today) to be this drawing's companion - well, I say surely because that is my ingrained custom, but to leave this only with the title that instantly seemed right to me may be enough. It's simply what I've said what today was:

My Brother Bob's Birthday


Hypotheses? Place-holders. This:
those seemingly inarguably accurate
and weightless shots that scheme
to capture bliss, do catch a little grace, 

then fall through space like boulders
in an avalanche, or fade to mist. Root
leads to tree and branch which holds
a fruit which if not plucked to eat, will drop

to rot – but eat or not, will rot. Conjectures
breed from every seed and sometimes
bloom – then bleed to death (the destiny
of every thought and breath): clearing

room for cunning new hypotheses –
perhaps, in fact, my little buttercup
(if fact there'll ever be), to wait for God
or you or me to sneeze another up.


That Severed Humanoid and his Blue Blobbabule

That Severed Humanoid
and his blue blobbabule!
He'll forever rule my heart
with his every single
severed part -- and his art,
What a job, what a jewel!


Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Perhaps One Day

He doesn’t know how much he’s loved,
albeit ectoplasmically.
His amatory gain and game was lust,
which gratified orgasmically

but ceased now much to interest him.
He often dreams he’s in a realm
of roseate amorphousness
which never doesn’t overwhelm

the heart he doesn’t think he has.
Still, something tugs. He is embraced,
meanwhile, though he can’t see or feel it,
by a big blue phantom who had traced

an errant tendril of this young man’s spirit
which had somehow floated out and up
beyond the atmosphere to lure
the phantom down – to the abrupt

decision that the point of its existence
was to love this loner like a son.
We wish we could report a happy ending.
Perhaps one day there will be one.


Monday, September 26, 2016

With You, My Dear

Memorable conversation
between friends depends 
less on affectionate beginnings 
and extraordinary ends

than on what lends some sense
that something’s spinning 
in the soul. With you, my dear,
I always come out whole.


Sunday, September 25, 2016

Art’s Destiny

All Art wanted in this life was to obtain a little boat,
get away from all the din, make it cozy as a tub
within whose sweetly quiet confines he could float.

Art dreamed of drifting out in it on perfect summer
afternoons. Crowds at beaches, raucous barbecues,
drunken groping in the dunes? For Art, a total bummer.

So in the glory of an August day, to flee cacophony,
Art pushed his boat away into the bay toward calm.
Before a storm is what the calm turned out to be.

A hurricane with killing winds – deafeningly thunderous –
horrifically ripped both the boat and Art apart. Now Art,
to whom we once looked up, is somewhere under us.



Explication of the Unexplicatable