Wednesday, January 16, 2013

On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.

Extreme Wisteria


On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.
The hydrangea
Of   her crushed each year a little more into the attar of   herself.
Pallid. Injured, wildly capable.
A throat to come home to, tupelo.
Lemurs in parlors, inconsolable.
Parlors of burgundy and sleigh. Unseverable fear.
Wistful, woke most every afternoon
In the green rooms of the Abandonarium.
Beautiful cage, asylum in.
Reckless urges to climb celestial trellises that may or may not
Have been there.
So few wild raspberries, they were countable,
Triaged out by hand.
Ten-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Intimacy with others,
Sateen. Extreme hyacinth as evidence.
Her single subject the idea that every single thing she loves
Will (perhaps tomorrow) die.
High editorial illusion of   “Control.” Early childhood: measles,
Scarlet fevers;
Cleopatra for most masquerades, gold sandals, broken home.
Convinced Gould’s late last recording of the Goldberg Variations
Was put down just for her. Unusual coalition of early deaths.
Early middle deaths as well. Believed, despite all evidence,
In afterlife, looked hopelessly for corroborating evidence of   such.
Wisteria, extreme.
There was always the murmur, you remember, about going home.

Bill Schwab

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

seen through your eyes

The Art and Poetry of Mark Erickson

It's music in paint, it's "spectrum" and curves. 

Anatomy of Flight - 18x12-canvas

the single sheet of lyrics

in the temptation of nature
her tree limbs sway
the leaves
swirl along in the rhythm
of the wind,
the ground underneath
folds amongst the rocks
and the dirt,
while the bugs climb through
their forest of grass and twigs
the size of skyscrapers and towers,
secrets hidden under the pebbles
soaring into the mountains
as the sun pours down
in her naked body
cooking the land
her legs move
her hand touching
in her single sheets
of her lost paradise

by Mark Erickson

For more art by Mark Erickson please go here.

Thank you Mark. xx