THE WORLD AFTER POST MODERNISM.

The brights! The sunlight glows
the things that are my freak:
what broken objects
can I now see?

May I bask in this warmth
of spectacle of starry infinite invitation

Or,
have I landed
in another box?

I swam to Aquarius today.
We spoke of our dead world
and our newbirthed hope
for art.

Yes, I said: I agree that material-availability
has made everyone the small-time artist.
The world of creation is hardly elitist anymore.
But the notion that everything has been done already
is gross,
it grosses me OUT;
it is revolting.
ART
can never cease.

Yes, she says, I agree that art
can never cease, but understand
the modern difficulty.

I understand that everything said is true.
I understand that brats and thugs have names.
I understand that society is boring and the
concrete middle class have nothing
in meaning except spare time.

To be louder and hard, we must create.
I don't care that Time is the filter.
I don't care that through the worlds Great Connection
it is harder to Be.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
There are times that manifesto's are spat in speech.

I think of the "hip"
and the beatific hip
and the glamour involved with history.
I explain to my consciousness, when
you're telling the story
you will be from another Time.
You will understand reasoning
for it slips from the present,
as the gift.

A thing that shone
shines brighter
from afar.

The world of art is by reflection.

Everywhere there is conversation
concerning the masters and the idiots.
I recall words between
two fires
and one earth
on topic that the brush of the past
is the only capable thing.
That on the hereby,
it is only through influence.
I sat quietly and observed.
They were almost convincing
in their fervor of cant.
These intelligent people,
at play with their words
making the creation of art harder for themselves
discovering ego in solitude
and shy to reveal.
Actually with attitude
that uniqueness has deceased.

Some of my most adored with this thought.
Some of my most adored for they do this thought think
and yet everyday create something new.
I wanted to call them mindless,
but just for their communication
they were mindful.
I wanted to tell them they are simply
afraid to conquer
But they have proven their creativity
despite the opinion on their tongues.

There is originality, friends.
And you are among the original.

I search to the past and do consider
every phase every era every generation.

Is it not wonderful
that the world is beyond Huxley?
That Tesla, Tesla! existed.
That I may look at Ernst
and fall on my soul.

The first time I ever heard the name
Max Ernst I was in New York
happened at a collection of his work.
I was born, then, at the moment
I began to cry (before the days it was accepted)
beholding a
WORK
OF
ART.

My world! What was once a blank canvas
moved me so much.
Who was this man?
And,
how could I now fear god?

Nevermind, the image is just.
I am in a world of illusion.
You understand, illustration
is in image of it.

The artist has relationship
with the world.
Thrusting expression against the
scheme of chance, winding personal reality
to abrasive consumption
and colliding skill (which is past) with ambition (going forth).
Having collected thought enough
to set it down in composition,
renewing itself as the birth
of the onlookers thought.

At the second's tick,
inspiration may be recognized.
By the hour's arm,
the artform may strengthen.

O, great thinker
brave thee even speak,
superior is your station.

I HAVE SEEN
NOW LET ME WONDER.

I have been unemployed now for several months.
I have stayed within,
painting picture, writing verse,
getting high and thinking deeply
of my place on earth
of the people involved
of the creation involved
and the words that may
flow with it.

I'm exploring the world by
exploring my mind.

To be content with a day spent
at home thinking.
To go off into the wild, exhaust,
and seek these months of recovery.
Morning must be easy.
Past nightfall, there is serious mindwork to do.
In humor I believe that I am
the underlying cause
man has not yet achieved outer space.

There is goodness on earth.

Each day my mind gifts me with thought.
You understand,
thinking itself is gaining knowledge.
That every piece of KNOW
is available in meditation.
In Tao, on all fronts,
there is learned lesson.
In silence, on all counts,
there is the timeless wise.

I rest beside my boiled water
and watch the leaves and petals steep.
World! The water changes universe.
I think of element
and relationship
and smile at my teacup.

I sketch through my recent words now
and take my mind back to the very stream
of continuum riff.

I apologize to somata.
I am seizing my mental ideals
and that deeply concerns
my peace of day.

I do understand eruption is
passion is an eclipse of self-containment
is unfelt memory
for reflection has not passed;
is ejaculation
is the current of psychosis
and the fundamentals of art.
Is chaos on the bank of humanity
is exhaust at bay
and the temple at ransom.

I do understand the dress of revolution.
Of religious poverty (almost extinct)
and the freedom in carelessness (the momentum).

My gut compels me.
It has acted and now I must observe
both shy and obscene.
I want to relate.
Is the canvas dry?
Is she prepared for another layer?

The only thing I need
is natural light.

Where is the creative world?
Stuck in the junk
of method and death.
THE ISM NOW IS iISM.
The movement now is new.
A young foot on ancient ground.

A curious begoner,
because I do become
and I will be gone.

On She This Mother
good and proud,
green and blue,
I will walk
I will know
I will trust
and I will meet
those who Are.

Already it is brighter.

What will science give?
A new god?
A new light?

I have come here in primitive times.
I'd like to know of the experiments they're
doing now with apes.
Are they talking monkey slang?
Walking perfectly upright and at war
with each other?

There is everything I do not know about.
And there is everything left
to think about.

I think about the evolution of mind.
I think, always, about the people I know.
I know the near future of art.

And art,
there
must
always
be
art.