See the threads and shreds and strands that coalesce out of the shadow-lands of being: streaming into, breeding bodily capacities – random chances massing into form; glance at the enigma of your eyes and hands: this build-up to a warm and human viability – with its inevitable liability: vulnerable – visceral:
ephemera which trick your vision into registering symmetry and outline from the swarm – the threads and shreds and strands that weave and melt into a course of sieving this, retaining that, exacting strategies for taking, giving – this force that you call living. Regard this blessèd and exquisite mesh – this conscious flesh.
The metabolic processes of psychic progress are a deep bewilderment. What are the biological imperatives of Soul? How does it cultivate the messy fleshy whole – the rest of what adheres to it –
what springs from it – what rings in it to make us us?
We mesh: we mostly get along. But what about when things go wrong? Does something central harbor markers of catastrophe conditioned in some future
to explode? – existential DNA which hankers to unload? – promises to blast the last of us away? Is the plasma of our genesis devoted to its final day? Who can say. Philosophic phlegm. Silly words. Tired of them.
Living with a set of limbs or mind or spine or point-of-view which by the measure of most other beings is askew first seems to doom the mutant creature to a labyrinth of aberrance: every day a Pilgrim’s Progress
through innumerable turns and twists of bodily betrayal – persisting like unfathomable sins it hadn’t known it had committed – of a size and strangeness so intransigent they can’t not manifest again, again, again:
until one day it spends itself – and in a blink, the mutant creature finds that it can think. And thinking makes the Universe crack open like an ostrich egg into a flood of cosmic yolk. The mutant creature gets the joke.
In the realm where colors roam – effect investigative introductions to each other, rest inside an outline, or more subtly overlap – to capture light – to find another home for off-off-white: in this bright crucible wherein innumerable hues become the muses and the mentors of unprecedented pinks and tans and blues: in this arresting mine of brilliant ores, this sea of glories – weave of interleaving shades –
sometimes a mutant breathing bit of stuff pervades the corner of a bloom of fire-red or tulip-yellow: and abruptly heaves out of infinity a random unsuspecting fellow. He sits there naked in a rainbow he cannot begin to fathom, dazed that there is such a game with such a claim on him – amazed he is its thinking progeny – a golden and beholden scrap of datum – blinking child of chromaticity. That blinking child is me.
I write roughly one poem a day. This blog is a continuation of a series of poem depot websites I'd also had through google, but which seem now to have filled up with my stuff to the point where I can't edit or add another page.
So here I am. Since April 1, 2009 I've been adding drawings, one a day. To see them fuller size left-click on the drawing - and voila.
To get an idea of who I am, google on "Guy Kettelhack."
To see poems I've written previous to the ones in this poem depot, google on Guy Kettelhack + Act 2 (or just Guy Kettelhack + poetry): for kind unsolicited observations about my work by photographer Rick Shupper: google Guy Kettelhack + Holtermann Design LLC. (I'd provide links but they don't seem to stick here.)
thanks for stopping by.