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Kensho in Still Life

“In my experience, a painting is not made with colours and paint at all. I don’t know what a painting is; who knows what sets off even the desire to paint? It might be things, thoughts, a memory, sensations, which have nothing to do directly with painting itself. They can come from anything and anywhere, a trifle, some detail observed, wondered about, and.. the painting itself is not on a surface, but on a plane which is imagined. It moves in a mind. It is not there physically at all. It is an illusion, a piece of magic, so what you see is not what you see.. It’s a long, long preparation for a few moments of innocence.” A lecture given by Phillip Guston at the University of Minnesota, in March of 1978
 
..
 
I think of my face, facing
West, facing your face,
Facing east
 
I think of my north face, south
And east, the ones you
Cannot
See, all in the same
Moment, and I
Laugh
At your faces, you
Also,
Cannot see
 
And I think of when Baudelaire said
That laughter
Is the collision between
Two
Contrary feelings,
Good and
Evil
Have no place on an
Easel, an artist is a
Hawk, whose
Hood
Has been momentarily
Thrown off
 
I have a want,
Like an itch
 
I want to roar with
All the colors
Of dawn
 
To plummet
To the earth, broken by
Celestial
Rebellion and
Cast, like a
Struck
Match and lie upon
Vibrant
Red
Wings
Of blood, perfectly aligned
With the sun’s
Zenith
Piercing me, nailed
To the ground
 
Black asphalt vomiting a noxious
Tongue, below the
Pedantic
Cornflower
Blue sky, arms and limbs
Arranged
In strangely
Beautiful ruin
 
Shattered glass littering the
Whole,
In a sea,
Of blinding
Mirrors
 
Somewhere,
A kicked door
Dangles from a hinge at a striking
Angle, cradling a
Heel
Impression, in its wanton
Womb
 
Annihilation
Is the period
.
We’re all
Shearing
Off our
Sentences,
Poets
 
It’s the demiurge we’re
Dancing
With, face planted in her
Sheer
Raven feathers
 
Sepia colored photograph of a
Bustling city
Street corner, titillates with its still
Birth, instantaneous
Unlife
 
All of them,
All of it,
Raped
Of two
Dimensions, in a
Flash,
In a moment
 
Feet, faces, expressions, cars, bicycles,
Buildings, all
Flung
Off the deep
End, of that final
Dot
.
At the end
Of a sentence
 
Still wrapped newspapers
Molder
Beneath periodic
Sweeps
Of an automatic
Sprinkler, transforming
Without an
Express
Intent, like lungs
Drawing
Breath
And there is a savage
Constant
Magic,
In that
 
And all the cities we’re born in are
Pockmarked with lacuna
Autobiographies,
Unbiographies, white
Lines
Drawn about removed
Bodies, soot outlines from the
Dresden firestorms, huddled
Prostrate
Against the final
Dimensional
Plane
 
Hack writers are underliners,
Undertakers,
Dragging fragments of
Dictionaries,
Into pine boxes
 
Two birds diving headlong
Into the sea
Appear
Pedestrian,
In their stilled flight
 
Meaningless initials
Smeared through
Wet
Concrete, now
Solid, stubbled with
Windblown
Soil and a hundred thousand
Rubber footfalls
 
It’s the same with
Everything, held
Between fingers,
Overlong, rather than
Breathed
Into being
 
And we’ve evolved into this
Shell
Dwelling
Civilization, of clothes
Sewn
By people we’re
Afraid
To see, look in the
Eye and
Justify
Their wage, their monotonous
Lot
In life and we
Know, the seams are
Designed
To buckle, after a designated
Period
.
Of wear, in a plastic
Throwaway
Petri dish
Culture
 
Big brother starching
Collars, with his stop light
Lenses, black electric tape
Daubed
Over the laptop
Iris, where a drawn curtain,
Once sufficed
 
My fingernails cut the page from
Instinct and it’s as honest
As clanging cutlery on an
Empty plate
In a room of starving wait
Staff, hoping for a hunk of overlooked
Bread, cheese and a five minute
Smoke
Break
 
When I struggle through the
Throngs, of the metropolis, screaming
Sweat
Beneath a pathogen and carbon
Dioxide
Trapping mask, what I hunt, also
Hunts me
 
My every breath is a
Stream of ceaseless
Hope, that
Something
Extraordinary
Is going to meet
At the next corner,
A car
Crash,
Crumpled
Metal
And
An inspiring
Display
Of simple
Human
Heroism,
Daring
The blaze,
Or
My next
Lover,
Squeezing through
The selfsame
Doorway
 
Her eyes, her
Scent
And
A myriad,
Of
Mutually
Assured
Destructions
.
 
..
 
“Freedom. That’s the only possession an artist has - freedom to do whatever you can imagine.” Ibidem
 
..
 
Kensho in Still Life
By
Daniel Christensen
DanielChristensen
Written by DanielChristensen (The Fire Elemental)
Published
Author's Note
Kensho, the definition I found, that I liked best, are moments in which you experience sudden awareness through temporary pain, that drives personal growth.

Copyright © 2020 by Daniel...
Kensho, the definition I found, that I liked best, are moments in which you experience sudden awareness through temporary pain, that drives personal growth.

Copyright © 2020 by Daniel Christensen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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