Wednesday, October 28, 2015

October 28

Scroll down on this page to see Hockney's work:


  1. Pearblossom Highway, David Hockney

    This is no one's perspective.
    Composed as any nature morte,
    the highway, build block by photographic
    block, extends to the horizon, beyond,
    yet perversely commands us to halt,
    though we would surely not do that
    in life, speeding through this empty stretch,
    miles from any enforcement.
    Insistent Joshua trees gesture
    like martyrs at the side of the road,
    the only living things for miles,
    as the desert erases the asphalt,
    turning it back to sand.

    1. lovely melody and rhythm in your lines.
      I especially like the structure of line 4, framing the shattered perspective on both sides.

    2. Love this! Really and truly. Send this to me or another mag!

    3. Thanks J, John! I have fiddled with it a bit. Also again revised the Odysseus and Calypso poem, so I'll email you with the new version.

  2. I thought I knew place
    I thought I came from place
    I was always in a hurry to get to place.
    If someone looked at me,
    I thought I exuded place.

    But in my sixties, I met Joshua
    A scrawny Seuss tree
    In my sixties I stopped in the desert
    Harnessed by a haunting moon
    In my sixties, not even grandpa
    Expected to find this place.

    Joshua shattered my compass
    Joshua ate my iphone
    Joshua penetrated my prayer
    Then Joshua disappeared
    Laughing at collage left
    That's when I found place
    And, no place.

    1. Love the personification of the tree. Wonderfully done!

  3. How Many I ways I can find Myself Absolutely Wrong about Hockney
    Pearblossom Highway, 11th to 18th April 1986 No.2:

    This is not Cubism and here
    is why: the principal
    technique is the manipulation of scale that is pushed
    into reproductive multiplicity not the deteritorialization
    of points
    of view(made to look
    as if
    from a single point of view rather than a multiplicity of hinged
    points of view)—a collaged collapse of myriad scales we know must be
    temporally displaced by the mechanism
    of curation but
    which shows no outward
    index of that fractured time sequence or
    the collision
    of its contractions(a time lapse without motion of principles). She smells good
    like a casino when she
    flips her blue-black teased hair and heel-less
    crushes the gas-petal
    to the floor
    boards with her fishnet
    stockings—a pair of dice lashed about her slight
    ankle—every side a viewable snake eye. Multiple domains
    are collapsed within the dimensions of a single
    art event rendered smooth
    like a pile of serialized scapulas. Off camera
    the Satsuma is drunk in by the paper basin of a grocery
    bag on the floor board of a burnt
    orange Super
    Bee (that smells good
    with a strong in-huffing of Aqua-
    net). This is not Cubism. In another
    slower life
    of crab grass and park
    benches I watch her glow—spit out
    the imaginary pips past
    the manger of her coda-chrome dress
    furled all around us in disarray.

  4. Mirage

    Long and straight
    tornadoes of dust and dead
    the oven door was left open too long

    Lonely and quiet
    tornadoes of thoughts and paranoia
    this road is no place for the lonely

    Liquid and restless
    tornadoes of nerves in the stomach
    the heat dances off the road like liquid

    Listless and bored
    tornadoes of nothing for miles
    even the oven has become listless

    Lurking and haunting
    tornadoes of desolation in the desert
    the road waits there, just lurking

    Leading and hoping
    tornadoes of anticipation fill the car
    or is it to a mirage, the road is leading?

    1. Love this poem. From one of my favorite art pieces too!