History of Art 101

A cave painting in modest, abundant ocher started it all
When some cave-dwelling hominid who was probably suffering
After eating some tainted meat or poisonous berries
Or perhaps, having eaten nothing at all, starved and half-crazed;
Either seems more likely than a divine flash of creativity.
Whatever the cause, the product of this act represented so much.
It shows: the work of an amateur biologist depicting
The flora and the fauna in the simplest of form of stick figures;
The story of a hunter and how big that one mastodon was
And how it got away from the thrust of his flint spear;
And these simple works also show the high priest storyteller
Whose words take shape in these rudimentary drawings.

Later on the medium changed but the purpose remained the same:
To depict the human condition in all its glory and all its misery.
When words and art were interchangeable as hieroglyphics
And almost every trinket and building created was ornate and
With such opulence it would be fit for a pharaoh's funeral.  

Other noteworthy achievements in art came naturally with time:
The adding of a third dimension broke barriers and
Working with proportion gave shape to simulated reality.
Along the human timeline much changed, but still seemed the same.
The mediums expanded and contracted in posterity and innovation
With Sunday morning funny pages echoing the style of cave paintings,
And ancient mosaics now resemble my aunt's master bathroom.

As we approach modernity (and still even post-that),
The simple act of a utensil giving tone and form to the medium
Has become more than that. Seldom do painters define
A movement characterized by brush strokes and color palates.
Instead the focus has shifted to lenses and light imprinting
Form with movement and stasis. Simple, solitary acts of creation
Can manifest in the mass orchestration of Hollywood productions.

Yet something humble remains.

The individual, an amateur with the drive to capture
and not so much intending to create,
Takes their everyday trinkets, abundant in possession,
And captures the human condition to share with the world,
So that others can look on and say, "Yes! That's exactly how it is!"

Our greetings sometimes equate
To the repetitive click-click-click
Of a gas range finding its flame.
But it takes no time until our pot
Comes to a rolling boil
---Bubbling and frothing,
And sometimes coming to the lips
Before overflowing into a steamy mess.

But in brewing our concoction
The recipe is seldom ruined
And hardly requires to start anew
With a fresh approach.
It is when the product tastes sweet,
Comforting and starchy with a flavor
Our tongues can't quite identify,
That we're left with  bowls empty
Wanting more and never sated.

It is in this fervorous hunger
That we fill each other's dish
To see each other smile
For such a small gesture.
We do this again-and-again,
Until the unthinkable has been thought:
We're finally full for the evening.
So what to do with our leftovers?
Save it on a simmer, for some breakfast
or perhaps, a midnight snack.

My cat's manic depressive
Who eats his feelings.
You can hear him crying
In our basement closets.
Sometimes he meows
About suicide; it's incessant.
However, the poor thing
Is mighty resilient  and
He keeps landing on his feet.

Oh How I Hate A Hiatus

Sometimes I feel like I'm in a slow strangle,
Hanging myself with a necktie.
Resigned to a life with the living dead,
Inching our ways towards the grave.
Yet our inching seems to be fast-paced,
As we're all asking ourselves,
"Where did the time go?"
In our trajectories set towards the future,
We spend our moments trying to speed
Through the monotony of the day-to-day,
But stay slow enough to clamor for
Those instances when we're really living.
Oh boy! Do we clamor. Reaching
For what we want when maybe we shouldn't.
But what's a night with friends behind the bottle
Without a little hangover?
Or the cooing laughter of a newborn
With out the tremendous responsibility of a child?
So in our collective clamoring, we should strive to live
As much as our time allows, and do what we can to break
Whatever slowly binds our bodies in order to live.

Love is a River pt. II

Love is a river
Not water from a faucet.
Not something you can
Turn on or off
or just wash your hands under
With some scented soap
That dries your skin.
No love is something else;
It's something you have to face
With no bridge to cross.
You have to roll up your pants
Or hike up your skirt,
And get a little wet.
Hell, and if it feels real good,
Submerge yourself
Like the good Reverend sang.
So why face it with trepidation?
Just approach with a sway in your hips
and maybe hold your breath
Just a little.

You wouldn't even fit in my socks,
So before you say, "If I were in your shoes..."
Consider this:
You'd stumble on your first step forward,
And most likely trip with the next.
You'd fall out of them the moment you try
To turn the other cheek.
I just slip them in and go, whereas you
Would fumble with the laces.

My soles fit me because of the way I wear them
And the way I am, so don't bother to try and conform.

Hey there little song bird
Sing one of your tunes for me.
Remind me of a time when
We both sang in the streetlight,
A tearful melody goodbye.
The final moment in our romance
of three summer seasons.

Our long duet started in that park
One warm July, when we resigned
Our love contingent on migratory patterns.
With each spring returning anew,
I turned to the west, hoping to see
Your little beak puckered in song.

I lost my voice long ago
But my screams still reverberate;
A tantrum perpetuated in echo.
In all of my frustration and hate
I have no real target; Under cover,
I blindly fire my thoughts
In this empty room.

If there were pictures on the wall,
The frames would be smashed.
Vases on the mantel would be
In pieces, unable contain itself.
Yet, there is nothing.
This room in my mind is a blank slate
And just a quiet place where I go
To let off some steam.

When parents walk their children up to my desk
And have them practice the formalities of a bureaucracy,
Just so they can gain a sense of their impending adulthood,
These children begin to understand their importance
In relation to the world outside themselves.

It's not so much about please-and-thank-you's,
But instead about what you can and can't do.
They look up at me looking down on them,
Their eyes wide to mine narrow, and my hands
Are making motions they can't quite comprehend,
In relation to a screen they can't see, or if they could,
Understand with their limited experience in this world.
But despite their shortcomings, goddamn, they are eager to learn.

Written on April 27, 2013

Two days ago was my birthday.
I drudged through a marshy April lawn
Picking up my dog's shit and litter
From the previous tenants' child/children.

Toys and feces quickly accumulated
In a small, brown paper sack
I received during my trip to the liquor store
In preparation for the evening's event.

My eyes scanned the lawn for at least an hour;
Lost in repetition I began to take inventory.
Where was I ten years ago? I realize
I'm on the cusp of another major transition.

Almost a quarter-century old,
I'm headed towards a milestone
That acknowledges my adulthood
And scares the hell out of me.

Ten years ago I was getting ready
For my new-found independence.
Entering high school, soon to be
Driving cars and fingering girls.

Instead, the next four years
Remained largely like the last.
There were some girls and cars but,
There was a lot more staying at home
And jerking off to the internet.

Ten years ago I was in a mall
Accompanied by my friend
And my parents. It was there
We dined at a bar and arcade.

Since, I have gained independence,
And with that solitude. I move at most
In a pair with a designated friend or lover.
Now my events take place at a bar.

In the past, it was all video games,
Junk food, and angst. Besides what I got
As presents, I remember playing the claw game
Winning a bear with tickets in his hand.

 This week, it was picking up dog shit
connected to a stick in the mud; just so
When I'm stumbling around drunk in the dark
I've responsibly avoided getting some on my shoe.

On the Mailability of the Young Mind

Immersed in pedagogical theory,
I  have to somehow connect it to practice.
Lost for months in a dialogue
I'm having trouble keeping to the conversation.

These fragile little egos
Which I have to trick into learning,
When I still haven't tricked myself
In any capacity of doing the same.

I have to speak with deliberation
and act with more;
Constrained by other's approval
That's what it is: De-liberation.

Tired, Mangy, & Flea-bitten

I feel like ol' Bill:
Sitting at my desk,
Fingers on the keys,
Ready to nod in my seat.

Far from my bed,
Afraid of what bugs lurk
Underneath in the dark.
They're ready to bite,
Knowing I'll scratch
'Til I'm raw.

Beaten into dormancy after the fifth frost,
I have remained under the frozen earth
Forgotten and forgetting
How to make my voice carry
Over the sound of the late winter winds.
But in this new Spring
My roots awaken
And my body blossoms as
My leaves will stretch for the Sun.
Soon my nectar will be carried off
Letting others know of my sweetness.
Brand new petals are in this season
and they'll get their wear before the Summer's up.

I shook my sleepy head free of any snow

And let my vibrant Springtime color show.

In your warmth from behind a shady cloud

I stretch out in admiration aloud,

With a great yawn and a blossoming smile

I see you among my uniform aisle;

We are all grown in the Earth's green coiffure

Arranged beautifully by Man's nature.

Leaves and petals bend in your direction

Sweet nectar flowing is my confection.

You have me thinking about birds and bees

So I'll keep fighting off mean Jack Frost's freeze.

May you come someday down my earthly way;

Enough to hear a lover's two lips say,

As they pluck away the petals to nubs,

"It is me, and only me, that he loves."

People say I'm anal retentive,
      Then how come I keep loosing my ____?

shit

(Found it.)

Your love is a holy river
That cleanses me.
In which I can bathe
Or get swept away
And carried to a new place.

I give myself to this river,
And in a mantra
Of three simple words
My soul is separated
From my body
And meets with yours.

Gun Control

You hold on to it like you'll loose.
But don't squeeze it too hard
Or else it might just go off
And we'll have one big mess.
It's just boys and your toys.

Portrait Of The Nude

Although you saw me on that first night
Naked as the day I was born,
The body you saw was that of a man,
But still in possession of the innocence
And the vulnerability of youth.
And with my clothes removed,
You saw only part of what I have to offer.
And in a slow, seductive striptease,
you will see the layers I have yet to remove
Vanish, and in time, you will see
My heart laid bare beating in my chest.
With every drop of blood pulsing in veins,
They carry your breath fueling my body.

Until We Crumble Into Dust

The ink may be permanent
   But the page is not.

Cookie Season

It's cold outside but we don't care
Because we have that oven going.

The it is that time of the year
To make something nice and
I know that sweet tooth of yours
It's aching.

Let's whip up the batter
As we melt like butter.
We can take turns licking up
Whatever is left on the spoon.

There's no time wasting
Because we've got all night
And the snow keeps falling harder.