stories of the delicate and other thoughtful poems

current tune: Caribou "Bees"

I seem to be switching some of my recent posts with some experimental poetry I've been creating. I've enjoyed writing little poems since the 6th grade and became even more inspired with the exploration of Surrealism and the beat generation within the past year. Going with this flow- I would push myself to look for inspiration in words and the different imagery they create when placed together in an atypical grammatical sense. The bounty of this is beautiful.

Last summer I would sit on my bedroom floor [in my 1st flat in Syracuse] with each letter set before me and began creating vertical poems or sentences word by word with the anticipation of something wonderful at the end.
I had no other rules to this mode of inspiration and newly found outlet of creativity-so I would let the piece end when I thought, or felt it was finished no matter the word count or context of the poem.

The words now come from other places and the connections are created without using the cut out magazine words. Sometimes the sentences come out of conversations, inspirational quotes or lyrics plucked from a song, and other times they just flow from my mind.

Most of these little poems do not have titles. I am not always good about titling my work in general-or it is not always as important to me as other aspects of a piece and some just seem to not necessarily need a name to have a power of its own.


So much to do-so much to see.
So many people to meet-so many places to be.
So little time-so much to do.
So little finances-
So many friends-
So many circles-
So little inspiration transformed.
So much food to steal out of rusting metal containers.
So little vice.
So little right.
So little days.
So little sun.

Winter is coming.
The wind is bringing in promises it aims to keep.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

...and some evening mobile telephone photographs:

This is a lawn chair that I spray painted gold-like many of my other things it has found a home among the gold painted objects.

Gold seems to be a personal on-going motif for me as an artist.
Its precise role is yet to be defined.

Then there is the new potential project. I found a dead moth in a plastic bags of prismacolor markers and other things I found in the backseat of my Merc one day cleaning out. I remember being shown some art by another artistic friend living in Albany [Mr. M. Carlson] that used deceased moths and flies as the art piece. It was so whimsical and beautiful in its small delicate nature-and I fell in love with the concept behind it.

I am going to try and use this opportunity to write out a story or poem using this little moth as my protagonist. My thoughts will become his words as he tells the reader [or audience] about his wisdom, tales of adventure, and his past.

I suppose I am going to see where it goes!

Here goes the process.

stories of the delicate.