"Let us bring to daylight the impulses of midnight contemplation."
Images from trip to NYC and the Picasso Exhibit at MOMA.
Full Album"
2011-Shakespeare Birthday Full Album
Photos from the Celebration
Photos from Fine Arts New York City Trip (Complete Albums)
Highlights
Complete Albums of the Individual Locations:
I realized two days after the end before the beginning and upon subsequent completion the end was the beginning is the end. Words man, words say things, they open up a world of indefinite reality set upon vinyl to a record player of life. A side, B side, each has its qualities and each has its way of being. Can the tortoise shell glasses redeem the sacrificial lamb from its wrongs upon the hill of judgment? Can a semi-religious statement be made to seem like one come from the mouth of a non-believer? Mark off the prices of idiosyncratic Black Friday stores, raid them for their wares, for their solutions to ancient living. Turn statements and maxims on their heads and understand than going forth, that moving is preferable to standing still. Relativity doesn't apply here Einstein, understand this kind of statement too is funny because it confronts an expression. Understand wordplay might be more important than understanding, that the Black Forest contains secrets of mythological understanding set upon a pedestal of nothingness and lies. Understand that saying you are mighty fine and being mighty fine are one in the same. There is no lie at play here. The cliché goes that people always lie when they say “I'm fine” but in this case you should speak it truly. You are fine. You are alive. You are fine. You breathe. You are fine. You can eat a calzone and send that motherfucker down your throat, through your digestive tract and enjoy the crap out of it.
I.
tents searched
i slept with two blankets
no necesito
and prince slept with none
on some
laid by
kevin with one eye
the space for us has walls of air
and privacy is a favor done by not looking
'
the same white man
with a white beard
and carrying like a fisherman says
that common sense is expedient of tradition
and i hear him to my back left
by the benches where drummers stalk
you cannot
drink the same liquor
twice
there is a ripple of beautiful heads
shaved balding oily chunks floral swipes
of brown torquiose golden hair
all flashing the sky's reflection
as they are
nodding
together
nodding at a call for politeness
nodding to the call of "it just is"
and the hair burns
that smell of eyebrows
the nicotine-stained curling of eyelashes
melting away from fire catching
the excess paper of a badly rolled cigarette
climbing above my nose
their heads burn in my eyes
as they call for cleanliness
as a well-slept Ms. whatever
with the latest running shoes
implores our people to fight against crack
and violence
and the red eyes of the affected are red
either with phallic righteousness
or chemicals
and none of us speak to the toxins
rising from our styrofoam plates
from the trucks painted by missionaries
and the air walls tell me he is looking for me
the radio tells me with suicidal poetry that he is looking
and my justification my love of solitude battles
my justification my love of humanity
and my love of humanity is torn by the loyalty of nature
now when skateboards smack down their wheels
i hear guns
and my nerves pick up
11 november 2011
art critique with visiting artist, barbara grossman, in the comiskey art center.
Open Mic Poster by Chris Cadena
POWER TO THE POSTER: Posters For A Cause, Digital Art & Imaging I
Here's an opporunity to create. Saint Anselm is currently involved in Enough Is Enough, a campaign against bullying, violence, and abuse. As a collective effort, we were asked to produce some sort of artistic, literary or musical response to the mission this campaign has set forth.
Enough Is Enough has provided us with some information they'd like to convey. The boundaries are grey and the space is unlimited; do with this as you will. I'm excited to see what comes out of this!
Guy Fawkes Day
Blow up my heart
and leave its pieces
coalescing
slowly gathering in bits
protoplasmic slithers
crawling back across the
floor.
Reform the shrapnel shards
to unforseen configurations
captured by the phantom pull
of a gravity you do
not know you have.
Hope is dynamite
explodes the past
to ever branching, flowing outward,
starry fingered, curling trails.
Hope is a whisper
to the flying pieces
to settle softly
along the gradient
lines of force
that point in silence
to the future.
Hope is a bomb.
Blow up my heart.
I’ve been doing a lot of observation lately. Not for any particular reason, I was just starting to notice commonalities in people on campus. There are a couple of different categories of which I’d like to elaborate on. The goal of my personal observations was mostly to answer the question, “Why is my school called St. C’s?” in addition to the question, “Why do people enjoy going home so much if they’re in college?”
with the snow and the wind and the confused chirps on birthdays, i wonder what it would have been like if i had left. not working with older, beautiful women and younger ones. not wandering through woods and mud and grass with officers at night. not making love to pulp fiction and watching it instead. not cruising through suburban new hampshire roads at three in the morning and not finding the frank lloyd wright house buried behind tree branches. not kissing in the snow and crying in the snow and falling in front of menacing statues of canonized saints. not laughing my ass off to archived conversations on skype. not listening to clean guitar rifts at the wee-hours of the morning in apartments that weren’t mine but felt like home.
