You want art out there,
something not
inside you, something
other, different
from those things
you can do, or think,
different from craft,
want an art
on that bedroom wall,
some van Gough, David,
da Vinci,
some object, shows that
you like the good things,
pretty things,
or smart things, or help
remind those beauty
in deep cracks
sometimes see on walks,
from eye corners, or
off windows,
sky from mirror view.
If art is outside,
separate,
feels legitimate,
realer, object says,
I am good,
I am beauty, listen,
I make you good too.
Beat down that
craft inside, push out
itch to make and do.
Is enough, says art,
you see me and like,
or wish to have me,
or work hard and make
more like me, that real
value in cotton rag
canvas for canvas.

But all you art, all,
even your most,
is clay, rock, water,
fiber, soot, no life,
dead after
drawing forth from in.
If leaves patterns fall
by windwork
in the old woodlot
and no person walks
to see it,
then if the painting
dies finally, mold
takes it, paint
chips to nothing, then
what is art really?
The only thing
on the paper is
graphite. Image comes
when we see.
All the great arts fade,
and craft inside us
bright remains.

Bookmark 19: Jeffersonia diphylla

 

Bookmark 18: Asplenium ruta-muraria

 

 

Thank you, person who

put the bench

on the trail. I was

not tired but my knees

can't move me

more, that prairie pull

them to ground, head down,

eyes full with

coneflower yellow,

purple, millions of

bergamot,

and red red red RED

royal catchfly, more

than crimson,

in the bluestem big

and little, Silphum buds

high in blue,

wind rocking my tears,

butterfly in throat,

bumblebee

in my heart.

Stone in my heart, and
stomach, pulls
me down, draw my head
to earth, tight with ropes
and lure weights,
when my mind asks, why
any one want me, what
good I have,
pull tight, knot fast and
stone drop down to earth,
and I say,
no, they care, love you,
need you, want your art,
your work, like
your help. But stone pulls down,
down, anchor drops, drags,
rope mesh or
cage, those old crab traps,
rusty and squeak the doors,
around my heart,
saying, how you can
think you are good? How
you not see,
all are annoyed, your
talk, your push into
every space,
you want too much from
everyone, doors say,
cage and ropes
tight around my heart.
Heavy stones are hard
to fight, and
trap doors always lie.

17. Mitella diphylla in winter

 

 

This beating, buzzing pulse

all round me,

all lawnmowers in

the city tuned to one

rhythm, or trimmers

set to high

slapping the curb,

every five seconds,

pulse and whine,

or old box A/C

works hard in August

heat, but this

are hundred units

shaking in humid June.

These not loved dog-day

cicadas,

pulse and fade in that

August heat, no, these

beat on, on,

no fade, only pulse

over pulse, over

pulse, on, on,

press and hang above,

those A/C units,

ears ringing,

those thousand mowers,

those red-eyed trimmers,

winged saws,

hum, and pulse, and hum,

and pulse, and hum, and

pulse, condense

humid air to static.

Under rain and gray

up at clouds

cress towers over.

Purple buds bright

against black

trunks walls behind.

Mustard green drips

siliques wet

fingers spread down,

crown flowers closed

in that mist.

Look up at that cress,

seems to grow, higher

than those oaks
behind, crown purple buds,
dark branches dripping
in dim light.

It grow in stone and gravel around,
body hidden under ground,
still and slumber most that year,
wait until that spring is near;
break through winter cold and ice
three leaves green in pale spike
up from moss and dolomite gray,
bud hidden between. When day
come and sun is bright,
flower knows time is right
for to open leaves. That bud
from power in root in mud
and stone makes petals white, and sepals
three and three; though late snow keep
all other plant in seed or leaf
that rhizome power come beneath
and open white and green and gold,
anthers stand straight and petals unfold,
meet cold and wet and winter sun,
and yet have enough warmth for one
or two days or two weeks,
when other leaves crowd and meet
stem and leaves and light grow dim,
miterwort, and Hepatica, and,
now
flower flop to mossy face,
bees gave pollen to spout of vase
in flower center from yellow fingers
and pollen on that vase spout lingers,
make tube down to base. That play
is done, now petals pinked to lay
to moss and fade. Leaves in broadness,
but soon flower senesce
and fruit grows white under shade.
That summer comes, and leaves fade,
come yellow and brown, and fruit falls
to ants that carry seeds all
to nest and let them to moss,
over leaf and root to cross
seas of mud earth, to gravel
and stone. How far they travel,
only ants know, and we know
next spring when seeds from dormant go
to germinate where some fell
on that mossy gravel and stone, and tell
how far the ants carried them. But now
parent flower finished, dark under bough
of Hydrangea and fern,
only enough sun on leaves to earn
next spring in that root, and so that stem
dries and falls away. Then
only root remains, one knuckle longer
after summer wanes and autumn wax stronger;
But under moss in that root
new flower is ready, too soon
for life, wait after winter,
cold and snow and light grow dimmer
all leaves wither to ground
branches bare and gray and brown,
but root sees nothing
and hears nothing
and tastes no sun
no wind, no rain,
and sleeps.

take me for what I love or let me go.

Some things I like: basketball - play with myself, shoot hoops, pass around my back, dribble, spin on my finger, it feel good, but never with any other person; comic books - I like really strong stories and good art most, with women; Ms. Marvel is my favorite; drawing - any kind really, with any thing, pen, pencil, marker, charcoal, color pencil, chalk, on paper and stone; shapes, abstract and real; scallops are something I draw a lot, and mixed media with charcoal and pen and pencil; I like micron pens best; Painting -with acrylic on fabric, most times, but also sometimes on canvas; plants - native plants outside in wild, and in my garden for food, and dig in earth, and walk with them, see them grow, know names and know about them, and talk with other people about them; wildflowers, most in spring; Walking-in woods and field and fen and marsh and around big talus slopes. Music - my guitar, and listen music; all kinds. Books - all kinds; I like scifi most, I think, I read some fantasy, some contemporary, some poetry, some history, some science, many many botany books; Cooking - I like try new things in the kitchen, and I like eating those things I make; Film - old black and white and silent and autor cinema and new techniques and film criticism, animation and live action, interesting stories, video essays about anything; Writing - I am not very good but I like writing poetry and nonfiction, stories about world how I see it.  Camera - my old digital, in cloudy day and rain in spring in dark forest stare up at flowers into clouds and empty branches and these, these are the best colors and shadows.

 

But if I let myself do all these things for some other reason more than I enjoy them and want do them, I can start feel it drains something important to me from them. That is not to say I can't do them for other things, but I enjoy them, that must come first. Or I will not love them more, I will love less, and feel sad when I do them. It becomes tedium, when I do these more for something other than enjoyment. Happen I should try every week for do these for me, not for something else, not for some other thing. I know really well I don't care, should not care what other people think, happen I dress and talk whatever, and let people think whatever. And I should do same about these, do how I want, do what I feel, express me, and let other people care or not. and let them think my English is broken or weird, I should not care, I should say, take me for what I love or let me go.