Song of So Many Poems

    Please every bitter advantage.
Write to understand, start to discover music.
Think through dreams, damaged, about her lame dead Father.

Take our string, glorious sex is out.
A fool's accustomed to save his strength.
     My mind is in heaven, yet investigates

Many companions shared and want to see on Crete, a storm.
Suffer patience, young Master.
     "So laugh Sister!"

     I relate more . . .
Take her strength. They'd investigate,
Where we'd analyze space.

Then, a dark deep strengthening dream,
     always shared a beautiful self.
They say why marrying has trouble, from chocolate and smoke.

And she could appear to hide his hurt.
     Can I date an original?
Sweet sister, make a muscle! Yell! I sculpt society.

I am jealous, absurd, less time upon,
Hence decays, snaps her from that trotting fiend . . .
     Canvas could live.

Always sculpt! You're me!
Throw her torpid form through,
     We know you're soon, to calm the crazy leader.

Perhaps you heard.
Walk, my favorite, Have soft clever respect.
    Your finger demands when we make deep sky.

Kiss when the no's have space.
Why is this girl like that?
     Sees, knows me. Discover a peace which could sculpt.

     A favorite idea, stuck beside a perfect childhood.
Still, why make him, Girl?
Being eerie, sing our differences.

     Collection comes, they never tell their opinions.
Fingering him, it won''t take an ugly score.
Destroy, then have a parting,

Enervate delight.
     Her money always switched.
If so, . . . I grip it.

You thread jungle art,
     I need to see who you are.
Confront!

Thy wench has yet ebbed in your observation.
Give chameleon strength to my electric composition.

Important memories see your sins apace.
     At home we could have found sleep about space.
A demon seizes you! Observe suffering.

I could storm out, Laugh, Act, Share!
Use part childhood sleep.
     I have him at night,

No glorious awesome electric fantasy
Since life hears strength, together there's gold.
     Go, experiment like a bird!

Who gave this bad communication? I am the original girl.
     Is life mean? Hard characters never lose.
Test with disorder, animal captures from time.

She sings many songs.
Because your style said, "Brother Moon, why did this young friend appear?"
     Passive air, shows and alleviates anger, though pleasant.

Though bold perfume is a calm instrument.
Carp us down, Love me in the original.


Photo: Mark Potter, model: Kayla Berley 21, 22-1, 22-2, 23
-:-

  The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Young Headed

Young headed . . . Sleep my mate, innocent . . .
Sculpt your glorious peace.
Feel music, art that yet chants a fresh imagination.
I am feeling better.
Give chameleon strength to my electric understanding.

Will I buckle? Almost . . .
Me, can I call? Be ours.
Know how important cuts emulate character
To scream this before,
You picture no crowd above . . .
Love notable nature, how surreal blindness, . . . gives music.
We have come . . . she ends the question.
Are you feeling better notorious creature?
A sun rainbow!

The impulse is soft in looking spotted
It affects, and breaks a line of weed.

Poster of my studio's raging dreams,
How big will be patience in my clever life?
Go experiment like a bird!
Appear calm, luxurious. Joy.

Despair observation, Play with solution
Mean stranger, periods are our brain fight!
Anger is some key, in solvent language
Movies aren't seeing sane,
Idols more for dirty use.
Children can run, should the monkey have come?
Rude girl-faced serpent,
Curious from grand hair!
Endless obsessive sex, not great passion,
Cramps our communal thought.

Nude, we can buy the tinker a hollow piece,
And reach aesthetic cleanliness.
Like glitter would shriek,
. . . a degenerate show.

Friday February 15, 2008, with Niki Notarile, 55, 56, 57

-:-

  The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4  5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Six Letters

On a scant atoll,
six letters, caught my soul.
I cast those letters in ink, not brass,
 . . . arranged them there to hold you fast.
A nib dripped ink,
so those letters made me think . . .
of the ruin of kin,
 . . . . Oh how the soul does rub it in.
A ribbon until the end of time,
arms I knew, would soon hold mine.
So in words I set our souls . .
stories to contain us all. . . like bowls,
 . . .  be good, and call me soon . . .
 . . .  let's Muse beneath the moon,
and with me, write nighttime poetry.

Eye and Ear

  Enough of this rhyming poetry,
  I'm tired of the rhymes I hear.
  Time instead I write for my eye,
  And not compose for ear.

Such Pearls

      

As my pearls flow on your skin,

    Your sculpted figure loves to sin.
Hips so dearly made to love,
    Lips so clearly shaped above.
Your eyes as soft as blue turquoise . . .
   Were clearly made to torture boys.

Becca Becca

I’m very relaxed with BL. She laid on a piece of paper prepared with a blue tint.

She has a delightful womanly body and I love moving around her, and studying her beautiful belly and crotch. I made detailed drawings.

She has lovely white skin and she seems to like it when the brush runs alongside her body.

Her drawing looks like the faded star map from Grand Central Station, before they cleaned off the cigarette smoke.

05/05/2006 - She demands honesty

Worked Monday thru Thursday at Sextant, all the while thinking and directing my energies towards the project. On Monday evening D____ D____ came over and we picked up on the thread of work I established with K____ B____ (LB).

A sequence of poses, then two sequences of words at right angles to each other so that they obliterate their own meaning, then a sequence of poses. The idea is to somehow enmesh the words of the Goddess between two ‘screens’ of the body, metaphorically sandwiching communications with the Muse between two dance performances.

Relations with D____ became more strained as the evening wore on, we were not in synch with each other, in spite of this the words came, and had their dance and held their meaning. Surprisingly there were phrases recommending that I stroke D____'s bottom, literally, kiss her, feel her. These were somewhat difficult for the two of us to read together. Together we buried these 'suggestions', though I’m not sure it was a good idea. Our meeting ended abruptly. It seemed the muse read my mind, and hers, and somehow we both were embarrassed. We want our privacy from each other, a little longer.

The Goddess does not respect individual privacy since 'she' knows all. Those that would talk to her should be prepared to share as well. She demands honesty and frankness. She breaks walls, and says whatever it is that is not said.

The drawing was made as follows:

Brown Umber Red and Yellow Ochre background
12 Poses
2 Layers of Poetry at right angles
7 Poses

As pleased as I am with this work, the first of the fully structured experiments, and as memorable as the session was with D____, I have unfortunately lost the text of the poem forever, due to a computer erasure. Despite all I can still imagine D____'s radiant body taking the different postures in this work. Under the effect of the language our work became somewhat strained. We just ran out of things to say. Perhaps we were stunned by the new level of frankness demanded by the work.

Painting the Muse at FunkBox

FunkBox is in one of those West Village downstair spaces. It's a roomy venue, not large, not tiny. A painting stage in one corner, hides behind a stout brick column which gives a false impression of privacy. Artists feel comfortable doing their work.

It's easy, gazing towards the back of the stage, to imagine we were given an old corner of a large European living room, to do our work. Punchinello clowns, wearing Raven masks, cavorted behind a trompe l'oeil tear in dowdy wall paper, a lived-in corner of forgotten theatre.

Look the other direction onto the dance floor and there are hundreds of gyrating athletes, crowded shoulder to shoulder, taking turns doing full flips, spinning on elbows, hips, knees, sacrum springs. If you can imagine a difficult yoga pose, spun into rapid gyrating motion, then you have an idea of what the dancers at FunkBox are up to.

Our first piece made use of day-glow colors designed to reflect the pulsing black lights that hung above the stage. The painting came alive - the lines seemed to dance as orange, green, blue and pink all alternated with the electronic beat. Niki seemed immersed in a fantastic sea of luminescent weeds floating like a snake, a cat, a whale . . .

Niki's worked with me for years. I direct, she acts, energy from both channels into the painting. At each moment I feel I'm venturing further and further from sanity as I work. I must navigate turns. It's like entering a cave - will I be able to get back out?

The use and choices of colors are absolutely everything, since color ignites the energy of the chakras, reflects. strengthens or represses. Color choices are very difficult. So is all the bending over the floor with the brush. Luckily I've been doing more yoga since my neck injury, and I'm able to bend towards the work in a variation of Parsvottanasana.

After a series - sometimes they have have a ritual or yogic structure, sometimes not, we begin work on poetry. We throw words into a dramatic situation, and then see how they orient themselves, and what they mean. The painting leads to the poetry. Image opens the mind to metaphor.

During this part of the performance the Muse called me "Glorious Doctor", "Brother", "Sponge-faced Madman".  It sounds like she's angry at me for some reason!

Niki was addressed as "Model", "Sister", "Marvelous Blossom", also "Wench"! She refered to my beautiful wife, alternatively in loving and derogatory tones.

If we ask questions, she answers. This time she even requested that I ask her more questions, reminding me that I had called her up with no request. I was so busy preparing for the performance that I forgot to think of things to ask her.


This is serious. The connection will be lost if it is wasted. She's busy. "You called. What do you want. Get to the point!" She seems to shout at me.

She's the Goddess with the razor tongue, the third player on our stage, and the speaker of the poems we invent.

Do we invent them, or does she? The poems keep realigning, refining, and shifting. Her meaning will not compact into a single perspective. She supplies us with infinite dreams.

She's an Oracle.

How do we write these? Do 'we' write these? Ah grasshopper . . . come . . . observe. You may ask questions if you ask politely. But you must remove your shoes if we allow you onto the stage. If not I may have to throw you off!

Who is this voice that alternatively berates, then praises?

I've decided she is the Muse, the original Goddess of Europe, In India she is Shakti-Ma, Shiva's female aspect. She shares qualities of Kali, Putana, Hera, Artemis, Gaia, and the Delphic Oracles. in Greece, after Zeus took the pagan pantheon, the Muse became the Goddess of Poetry. This and other literary and artistic talents, she passed on to her nine granddaughters.

The 'she' personifies her as a force. Personification brings one closer to understanding. Neither science, nor conscious elaboration of quasi-Jungian theories of what the Muse represents can explain clearly what she is about. I'm after what she says, about my work. It's why I do it. I'm hungry for feedback.

I want to thank Melanie Aquirre, and Khahim Johnson for the opportunity to perform at 'Funk Box'.

Lead Her

Later you just might score, 

I never said you are dead. 

We buried this over animal music. 

Our stand-in event, was passive, that much I made,

at home we could have slept about space,

Jokers said, "But are you clueless? I have assets."

But he, day one, was not imagining,

We all have been beasts.

Muse, I see Miss Ivy!

"Expert!" I meant, "Heart care actor!"

Is this how we versed of Moon?

A poor tune, tie'd down to come, a Husband.

So he cared for them,

Before my bovine smoke party.

with Eva Moll, July 21, 2006, 58, 59, 60        Part I, Part II

The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Breathe

Breathe, disgrace our presence,
The peace which I always open,
Is an awful hidden, and daunting, reserve.
Man you can hide perfume, the glory owes you money.
Be her man, I suffer,
I need to see who you are, so she can see love.
Hindustan, my arty tea, you menstruate, lie and wish.
Model, I've a database!
My language was never meant to abuse.
Confront fear, Observe, I sculpted her man,
Parlay, all in pain.
We must hurry, see in tea, a secret sin.
At best, I see all.
You heard,
I have her city, willing.

with Eva Moll, July 21, 2006, 52, 53, 54   Part I, Part II

The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81