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Month: November 2016

Colors are Heroic.

Colors are Heroic.

Hieros Gamos, by Douglas Pinson. 1982/1983
Hieros Gamos, by Douglas Pinson. 1982/1983

When I was very young, I didn’t see this. I didn’t see the heroism of color, or the way we make colors ourselves, in our eyes, in our mind’s eye, or the bravery of Nature’s way, or its tremendous courage in painting as it does.

Yes, Nature paints, and that’s not just a Romantic notion. It’s not some pseudo-poetic way of describing the ineffable. It just paints. Nothing comes close to the skill set of Nature in regard to — well, everything, really. Especially shadows, colors, light, polarities of darkness and light. And nothing can reach its sublime power in making opposites cohere, mesh, harmonize, complement. . . . Read more. “Colors are Heroic.”

Necessity and Inevitability

Necessity and Inevitability


It’s almost inevitable that the conversation continues. About Art. About the way we humans structure things, because our brains were built that way. About the way we choose to structure poems, plays, novels and such. The rocks we use to get to something else. The fire inside that rock. The spirit of stone the best sculptors find and exploit. It was there all along, they say. And the best don’t just say that, they feel it with every fiber of their Being in the World.

The best art is inexorable, inevitable. I first bumped into that idea, at least in that form, in William Barrett’s Irrational Man, a book I’ve discussed in Spinozablue now and then. . . . Read more. “Necessity and Inevitability”

Stages Along the Way

Stages Along the Way


Mixed feelings. Images clash. I don’t always or sometimes or never believe in phases, set eras, concrete life-steps that group themselves in any rational order. I don’t think we pass through these things on our way to wherever we find ourselves. It’s random. And this belief I feel at times, no times, as if it were always and never, is something that clashes with my art, what I think and feel about art, how it must happen and be.

Order. Order the chaos. Organize the disparate, random elements of our lives and our worlds in such a way that they, for a moment at least, make a certain kind of sense or anti-sense. . . . Read more. “Stages Along the Way”

Dwell Here: Nostalgia’s Graveyard Seductions

Dwell Here: Nostalgia’s Graveyard Seductions



The poem I sent into the aether yesterday, Probably the Last Dawn Poem, was an old one. It was already a slightly belated look homeward (angel) to a time of some social and romantic turmoil, when my life was at one of its all too frequent “crossroads.” I had written a series of poems ab0ut a young woman with the perfect name for all of this, whom I had fallen for, hard, but who was still entangled with someone else in our little, mostly work-based social circle at the time — and I had come to the conclusion that it was all for naught. I don’t think she ever knew she was my Beatrice for a few months or so, though she must have sensed some edge, some silent pleading in my eyes, my gait, my inconsistent confidence. . . . Read more. “Dwell Here: Nostalgia’s Graveyard Seductions”

Nostalgia for Nostalgia

Nostalgia for Nostalgia

dawn3Probably the Last Dawn Poem

Did I bring them closer
Together in this soap opera chain-
Smoking pseudo-wooden-fern-bar

Did I care once about her
And her high looks soft
Threat of a voice
Long drink of eyes waiting
For me?

It’s strange no it isn’t
Now I’m old and they’re young
And even though I must be above putting things
In nice boxes
I have to start doubting my level of Reason
And my need to find my age
Wherever it may have gone

They say that no one is
Over Thirty without at least
One or more of the following . . .

— But let’s not mourn for dead things material issues
Bound to upset and suffocate us the social
Phenomena are not worth a lousy poem

If she and I had met first if
It had been on the strand
In the moonlight
Headphones playing Mozart quadraphonically
I take her phones off she
Takes mine off and the night
Follows the music
Played more beautifully deeply
        Waves as melody omen future ground and rhythm
The sea pressing against us pressing our bodies against . . . . Read more. “Nostalgia for Nostalgia”

The Non-Absurd Life of Rocks and Things

The Non-Absurd Life of Rocks and Things

Rocks Are Not Absurd

Rocks are not absurdflow2
They are always what they are
Which is something we humans
Can never claim

And we spend so much of our time
Doing just that
Screaming about our
Supposed authenticity

No species on earth is more
You know




What other species wears so
Many masks
For so many reasons to hide
From the innocent and the not


blueskyrockWhich often means
The not

Rocks are always tough
Especially the blue-sky kind
In the best sense of that word


No pretense


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