No matter how long
The darkness
Seems to be stretching
At night
A day
Will surely come
With its light
Once again
August 13, 2021 at 03:44PM
Category: Light
Dark and light
As if her being naked
Were not already enough
She got up and walked
Past the window
So I could see
In the light
The beauty I’d felt
In the dark
August 13, 2021 at 03:39PM
Blind soldiers
For as long as I
Can lie on my side
Looking at the light
Bleeding in ever so softly
Through the white, wooden slats
Strung together and hung
To face the fury of the sun
Staying in bed until noon
Free from the day’s oppression
Would not be possible
Without their bravery
I yawn, smack my lips,
And close my eyes again
To return to rest
In their honor
July 08, 2021 at 09:42AM
The wind and the light
I went downstairs
And into the bedroom
To get my laptop charger
Out of my bag
I didn’t know
I was walking into
A dance
Set to music—
The cold wind blew
Through the window
I opened last night
To stay cool
The red curtains wavered
And shafts of warm light
Shot through
The dark bedroom
It was the chill
Of the cool morning air
Crisp in my nostrils
The way the light
Came through the curtains
In the brief moments
They were blown open
The color of the light
Yellow
Coming through the red
Like gentle orange fire
And then darkness again
When the breeze subsided
And the curtains went back
To being shut
I stood there
In the doorway
And watched all the love
Being made without me
I guess I’ve gotten
This misconception
That things are only happening
When we’re around
To make them happen
But the wind and the light
Lost their egos
Long ago
They play
With
Or without
An audience
June 06, 2021 at 06:11AM
In the dark
I have not been up early or late enough lately. Only awake for the day, when it is light, and the whole rest of the world is awake with me, telling me what to do. It is in the dark where I used to find space to stretch out, but since setting my morning alarm, and getting to bed early enough to get a full eight hours, I have spent less time in the dark. That is where I used to find my inspiration. The dark is chaotic, but it is also creative and full of mysterious possibility. Whereas the light is clear for all to see—the title on your desk placard, the name on your name tag, the features of your face, the messiness of your apartment, the trash on the sidewalk—it can all be seen, accounted for, and set about the business of the day. But at night, all bets are off. God knows what people are doing. They should be asleep, and if not, then what? Where is the traffic cop to tell the hoodlums not to cross the road when the light is red? But there are no cars. Where is your boss to tell you to be at your desk during work hours? But the lights in the office are off and nobody is there. Where is the sun to say the day has started and it is time for you to be awake? But I am already awake, sun, I have beaten you to it. And the moon has told me what you would not. I will return in time, and when I do, I’ll have something new to show your day.
Nap time
Noontime sun seeps in
Singing of searching
Clouded and loud
For thunder could not
Strike so straight
Turned away by light:
Things, bright things
Searching still
In this dark draped bedroom
Go back now light
From whence you came;
You will find naught
But darkness here
Closing my eyes after a shower
I close my eyes and lose track of the reality that returns when I open them again. Standing in the shower, light-headed; I almost fall over. I close my eyes again. The longer I look at the black in the backs of my eyelids, the more animated it becomes, with figures I might learn to name if I were to look long enough. The black doesn’t always strike me. Sometimes I close my eyes and open them without noticing. The world returns and it makes sense to me, seeing again the same thing that I saw just before blinking. Other times, the black catches me, at first in its simplicity, in a reprieve from the physical world, full of complex optic details. Then these animated figures start to appear, moving with a life of their own. I wonder if we could adapt to that blackness, given enough time to evolve and get used to it. What would that black, close-eyed life be like?
Self-conscious
I step away from my desk to stretch. I lean over to touch my toes. The sun from the window behind me shows my shadow on the hardwood floor. I see that my hair is disheveled. Previously unaware of my appearance, I am now self-conscious of my appearance. What if I go to see people later? What if someone comes into the study? My hair should look kempt. I fuss over it, using my shadow as a mirror.
Inspiration from sensory experience
Changes in my sensory experience are a main source of my inspiration.
Sitting at my desk in my apartment, I am experiencing the same senses. I can hear the sound of traffic on the street outside. I can see my computer screen and the white wall behind it. I can feel the cushion under my bum and the wood against my back. I can taste my saliva. I can smell the bland air. I am experiencing the same senses. I am bored. I am not inspired.
So I get up and put on my sneakers and go for a run. Now my sensory experience is changing. I see new storefronts every block. I see new people and new cars. I hear conversations and children laughing. I smell the pollen from the summer trees. I feel the wind and the sun and the cement beneath my feet. My taste is about the same—just saliva.
Now, this is not to say I could not have changed my sensory experience in my apartment. I could have turned on some music. I could have taken a heroic dose of acid. I could have punched myself bloody. I could have sat down and tried my best to enter a deep meditation.
What comes in through your senses is already art. Life itself is art. What you see is a painting. What you hear is music. What you feel is dance.
As an artist, I am more of a translator than a creator. My life, my sensory experience—this is already the art. It is like clay given to a sculptor. I take the sound or music and the sight of the sky and turn those experiences into words. But in some sense, they are already words.
I am like a kaleidoscope or a prism. The experience of life is light. I am not the creator of light. Nor am I the creator of myself. I am merely a vessel.
It is still work. It is not as passive as standing there and letting light pass through. But it is work already set into motion by forces greater than me, and I must merely play along.
Morning
A bird chirps
Through the window crack
In the morning
Car wheels
Roll to a stop
At the light outside
Baby breathes
A deep waking sigh
With one eye open
I stretch and roll over
Before the alarm
I know is coming
Shy sun
Hiding below the horizon
Like a shy child
Who forgets every night
That he is the sun god
And must muster again
The courage needed
To shine all day
For the world to see
City alarm
The city alarm is set
By the bus route
And the bakery man
Driving his truck of bread
And the other cars
Their wheels and engines
And occasional radios
And the street light
That never stops
Or maybe it’s the store light
Or traffic light
That always finds a way
Into your apartment
Despite your best efforts
To drape the windows dark
—The light and noise
Even here in San Francisco
Makes you believe what they say
About New York never sleeping
Early summer sun
The sun comes up
Through the shade
So early
In the summer
That I wonder
If I even
Got to sleep
Bright city bedroom
Some light seeps in
From the street lamp
Between the drapes
Some light
From the buttons
Of various devices
Strewn about the room
And just those two
Besides the shimmer
On the ceiling
From one or the other
Of the aforementioned
Is enough to make
The night bright
In our bedroom
When we would rather
It be dark
sleepy studio
An open doorway
Into another room
Where daylight
Creeps beneath
The window drape
Does appear
Less dark
Than the lightless
Life here
On the sleepy side
Of the studio
Where the drapes
Are pulled tight
moon making do
Each night
There is a scar of light
That holds its shape
Shot through the drape
And onto the ceiling
From the moon outside
Making do till morning
sunlight stripes
The shades sprinkle
Sunlight stripes
Through spaced out ribs
On the white wall
In the morning
shadow
A shadow
In the corner
Of my eye
Seems a shape
So real
Until I turn
And watch
It disappear
Shadow ribs
Standing next to the light
That shows shadows
In my rib slants
Shirtless
Knees against the mattress
Staring
At myself in the mirror
With a sideways glance
Observing
Parts of my body
That I hadn’t noticed before
Ceiling scar
The same section
Of ceiling
Has this shimmer
In the noon time
Which reveals
Its blemish
Of poor plastering
But maybe
On purpose
As an artist
Plastered it this way
Like a scar
That is beautiful
As it appears
To me now
Staring at the wall
Staring
Long enough
I start to see
The space
In between
Focusing
On each speck
Of dust
In the air
A gradient
Obscures
My vision
Of the original
Object
Of intent
Farther off
Sober trip
Rubbing my eyes
I enter into
This outer space
An oxymoron
To go into
What leads out
Like the small door
In the Wonka factory
Or the key
To Wonderland
I chase after
With eyes for legs
Abstract patterns
Like fireflies
In the night
Of my closed eyes
Forgetting everything
Like being a body
In a shower
Noticing only
The bright yellow halo
With a black hole
In the center
Pulsing and blurring
Off into the distance
Of my vision black
I run harder
To intensify this vision
Of my own internal
Solar system
Of dynamic stars
That dance
As I rub my eyes
Accustomed to seeing
The real world
Mixed up
Offering apparitions
In a dark world
Of my own UFOs
Where I can play
Like a child
Chasing after
What I do not yet
Understand
Material light
A speck of light
On the floor
In the night
Looks like something
More than light
Material
So I step over
In the hall
To avoid
Stubbing my toe
Realizing
It is only light
By the shadow
On my shin
Spooky light
A green light gotten gantry straddles the bathroom door to lift up the ceiling and allow in some more grim spooky Halloween mood that goes with the green slimy swamp like expecting to see a skeleton or something floating in the bath water
Light passing through
Light passing through
Like a shadow lantern
Let on from street light
Between tree branches
And fire escape rails
Tinted by window glass
Cut in eighths by drape
Entering our bedroom
Making a movie for me
Falling asleep watching
The walls come to life
New shadow
A shadow I don’t
Normally see
Separated in half
At the wall’s height
Halted only by
Intersecting ceiling
So far as candle flame
Keeps light left
And right of lamp shade
The split in the drapes
The drapes that cover the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, are separated just barely, like the split in a log that appears as the axe is first wedged in, but before the two halves completely separate. The split in the drapes is slightly wider at the bottom, so more yellow light gets through there, and onto the white rug. Light from passing cars gets through the narrower part of the split at the top. This light is dynamic and animates the room as the car passes. It’s shape depends on the part of the split it is passing through. And it’s position on the wall depends on the cars motion. As the car is coming from the west on California, the slim light starts above the dorm or way to the kitchen, and then travels over the bookshelf and desk until it is above our bed and then disappears because of the angle once the car is too far east. This is the closest thing I’ve got to a motion picture, since we moved the television into the closet last week.
symbiotic stretch
as i stand
in the doorway
and stretch
to the right
leaning over,
our plant reaches
for the light
kitchen window
to the left
personal projector
in the daylight
wide-eyed
and seen
what most
assume to be
all there is
sleeping
deeply
leaving black
to be just that
unaware
that if
you open your eyes
with your eyes
still closed
lights will flash
and a movie plays
on that
black backdrop
and you can play
whatever movie
you want
rainbow
just a little
rainbow light
on the right side
of the cabinet white
when i wake up
and walk into
the kitchen
to make breakfast
lazy sunday
the blinds
on a lazy sunday
even if only
barely open
must be pulled tight
so the world
cannot get in
sun dial
as i lay in bed
on a sunday
an oblong shape
of light moves
across the wall
through a small slit
in the shades
at first nearer
the arched doorway
and yellow
each time i stir
more golden, warm
closer to
the west wall
like a sun dial
yellow orange
when it’s so hot there’s a yellow shimmer like the sun has bled into the air come nighttime that shimmer softens turning orange and utterly harmless
car shadows
shadow shapes
speed
across the ceiling
i see
laying in bed
as cars cast
their light
through the window
passing by
glare again
glare really gets me
gotten out of the bulb
and onto
something shiny
stinging
like the first light
in the morning
as demon hands
grab hold
of the pupil rim
and pull it tight
to shut out the light
windshield glare
the sun hits
the windshields
of cars passing
by
on california
just right
to shoot up
through our window
and into my eye
front porch light
a light
above the front door
reaches out
down the steps
like an open hand
for the traveler
that might have
otherwise
walked on past
night light
seeing up
at night
dressed in
a soft light
not quite
dark as
it will be
soon enough
screen glare
that glare
creeps crawls
shining sneaking
from the ceiling light
through open space
and onto the phone screen
that makes a cutting
bright white light
like a knife
getting into my eye
and cutting past
my cornea
into my brain
confusing everything
like a shock
all of a sudden
i can’t see
and have to turn
the phone screen
back over
candle dance
what comes from
the candle flame
dancing through
its glass holder
and mixing with
the shelf light
together
make quite a show
on the outside
of the white
shower curtain
so standing
under the water
watching
i forget
how long it’s been
pulsing bathroom floor
the world is shaking moving
making faces at me
in the candle light
the tile floor gyrates
beneath my feet
the little white
hexagon tiles
each bordered
by gray grout
pulse back and forth
confusing my sense
of where my feet bottoms
meet the ground
mocking my
impaired mental state
pill bottle in the night light
going to the light
to the beam under the shade
brining what needs to be seen
like the page of a book
or a pill bottle label
in the middle of the night
rather than flipping the switch
and blasting the whole room
like a grenade
for a bullet’s job
a pill bottle in this case
so i can see the label
and cure a hangover
in the middle of the night
and make sure i don’t poison myself
with the wrong bottle
sunrise pedestrians
one person
steps off of the sidewalk
and the rest of the morning
pedestrian crowd, follows suit
without looking up at the light
when the sun blasts and blasts
in the early morning rising
so you wonder how
can it be so bright already
so much your sleepy eyes
can’t stay open looking at it
hands
my hands
often hold
the reminder
that we are real
as i stare at
my open palm
and fingers
stretched wide
turning my hand
over in the light
exclaiming silently
at space
in general
to even exist
and more specifically
as something
i can see
and even more
as something
i am part of
and can affect
with a body
to which
these hands belong
slim light
the blinds open
just barely
so a slim
stretch of light
creeps through
keeping
me awake
boomerang light
a bend
of light
stretched up
and around
the ceiling fixture
like
a boomerang
traffic light on the wall
i want for
the little square
of green light
on the wall
to turn yellow;
i don’t know
why exactly
but i do, maybe
just for something
to change
or because
i know
what comes next
so well
that i just
want it to happen
already
so when it does
the satisfaction
is short-lived
and soon after
turns to red
morning light in the cafe
a sliver
of morning light
shows itself
on the left side
of the square
wooden table
where i work
in the cafe
casting a shadow
beyond
the cup of tea
still steaming
—the same
table
on which
there was
only darkness
an hour before
flashing lights
flashing lights
when i turn my head
too quickly
and think
oh god
am i tripping
wake up
i raise my head
from the pillow in bed
as a brief flash of light
comes under the curtain
and catches my eye
just enough
to wake me up
at night not knowing
at night
not knowing
stumbling
in the dark
preferred
still
to knowing
to avoid
the fear
more than
the object of
a light return
at night
keeping lights
turned off
to avoid
a return
prematurely
to
the waking
world
light for seeing
lights
turned on
returning
to a seen world
that eyes
were grown
to survive in
shadows recede
little light
left over
long for
shadows
to recede
showing
more of
what there
is
to be seen
revolutionary morning
less colors
with the lights down
so everything
is closer to black
conforming
and becoming one
until
a revolutionary
non-socialist
morning
when individual
color rights
will have
their day
sound over meaning
a lot of the time
it’s just how
the words sound
and not
what they mean
just like
it’s the light
and not
the object
drapes like dam
window drapes
like a dam
after a flood
in the morning
holding back
all that light
wanting in
to wake up
and start the day
moonlight
in a dark room
noting the moonlight
through the blinds
that is normally
drowned out
by the ceiling light
longing for light
looking up
from under sheets
longing for light
that won’t come
until the morning
eyes adjust
like a bright light
that you look at suddenly
from darkness
and close your eyes
and look away
waiting for your eyes
to adjust
but still seeing
that scar of light
on the back of your eyelids
that is a symbol
of the actual light
you saw
but it is not
the actual light
it is just
the scarred memory
of your eyes
telling you what
you supposedly saw
and more
and more abstract
if you watch it
off in the one corner
of your vision
the edges softening
more and more
until what resembled
a lightbulb
in the ceiling
and then a circle
of light melts
into the general bright
of your vision
at large
as your eyes adjust
greased
in the night
my poetic mind
is greased
without the corners
of the lighted world
to catch it
scared
a light open lunchtime world
outside at high noon
with everything bright
and seeing for distance
other people around
and voices can be heard
and everyone awake
unlike last night
in a dark room
close down under covers
hiding from the abstract
dark monster peeking
through the bathroom door
from the top corner
of the mirror
giving me terrors
in the delusion of having
woken up
in the middle of the night
and being scared as hell
without even knowing
what i’m scared of
but certainly made possible
by it being dark and nighttime
inside a small room
with nobody else around
reach up
you can’t always hit hot spots
hoping beyond canyons walls
when crevices down deep enough
that the sun could set across the whole sky
and you’d only see for one second
at high noon and even that would
be enough to notch
one more step in the rock wall
and reach up
shadows
what shadows appear
when the lights are turned off
hidden before in a general bright
appearing now from
a more focused light
framing the doorway
from the streetlight
beneath the drape
section of light
ceiling showing light
passed through from
the bottom eighth
of the kitchen window
uncovered by drape
showing a triangular
section almost white
like a car headlight
shining at night
i love art
i love art
so much
on the weekends
that some
sunday nights
i think i won’t
go to work
when i wake up
on monday
but then
soon remember
the yin
and the yang
the day
and the night
the dance
and the sleep
art is the leap
but there still
must be
the landing
and the takeoff
which must
go well
before
and after
the air time
that is art
and can go
just as it will
but money
and survival
and physics
and rules
and relationships
are still there
when you land
trying not to stub my toe
stumbling to the shower in the dark i’m feeling like i’m out of mind where all is abstract without edges shown to me it is only the fuzzy loose and generally vague feeling that tells me i am still a sensing thing so turning the faucet and having the cold feel accentuated in the dark and waiting and having to leave for baby to use the bathroom and coming back to find the water hot and all this stumbling blindly with my hands out in front of me and working from memory of the apartment trying not to stub my toe
morning light
creeping morning light
between the drapes
into the living room
brightening the edge
of the white rug
and putting a shimmer
on the hardwood floor
giving to my eyes
information for what
in the apartment
needs to be done
and pulling me out
from under-
neath the sheets
open window
what a window
wide open
letting light
like a painting
framed from
outside into
the dark attic
so that
the window
and the shadows
it casts
are the focus
in a diagonal
wood rafter
attic otherwise
dark and musty
if not for
this window
breathing air
and light in
smoking in bed
baby blowing smoke into my lungs so music sounds better laughing laying on top of a made bed in the afternoon when we should really get out but perfectly content here with outside coming into us from sunlight pouring in through tall windows framed by drapes
baby standing on the stool
little foot marks
on the stool
where she stood
higher
last night
framed by
the storefront light
coming in
through the window
holding the drape
pull string
twirling and
dancing
smiling at me
scared of the night light
in the dark world
nothing scary
if remaining dark
only scare
for what comes
out of it
so dark forever
is not so bad
save what
the light might show
eyes wide writing
in the dark
sensing
by touch
i realize
it is the cause
of light
that i have
been writing
with my eyes
sleepy head
in the dark nights
open mouthed yawning
dreamed upon
days not yet
woken
domestic art
the light
from between
a barely
open door
and its frame
cast upon
a carpet floor
in an empty
dark room
abstract yet
so defined
and clear