"curators" poems
Gold and silver battle *****
torn from swords saddles and crosses
lying beneath a farmer's field
tributes to kings and bellicose gods.
Fierce birds of prey snakes fish and bears
framed in filigree geometry
guarded warriors' savage souls.
No mercy in Mercia.
Archeologists anthropologists
historians librarians
curators and consertvators
collect confer and classify
while I just try to connect.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Come into my commune,
My farm
In the sky;
You won't be lonely
Baby,
Not by a hiker's mile
Let's climb
Into the morrow,
Throwing fear
To the wind
The curators
Of sorrow
Are seething within
They prey
On your pleasure
And worship your sin
Like vultures
They hover,
Like maggots
They win
Come into my commune,
My farm
In the sky;
And feast
On your freedom
Then bury your lies;
You won't be lonely
Baby,
Not by a hiker's mile
~ P
#AHikersMile
(12/20/2014)
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
Hanging around the old cabaret,
where nighthawks steal glances
at the curators of tired eyes,
the walking dead take leave
of their senselessness
entering blurred reality
Someone calls for another round
shouting fire down his throat as
A dart nicks the narrow space between
two fates and falls to the floor
avoiding both,
leaving him in a rage
She pockets the change they left her
or forgot, while
laughs infuse the acrid smoke,
ricocheting into nothing
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
On a school trip to a gallery,
Teachers and curators will always tell you
Look upon, examine, appreciate the art!
But they’ll never instruct you
On how to be certain
That your appreciation is acceptable and right.
Conundrum of the contemplative,
Judgement of the partisans,
Cogitation of any aware,
I’ll ponder until my encephalon
Subsides under impactful pressure
Until the logical or the just is no longer right.
Through incandesce of the morning,
In the cloak of the ever-mantling night,
Here I revel in the concept of
Eternal glee through appreciation
Of nostalgic kitsch, and graffiti—
And hyperrealism as well as photoshop
Because love isn’t just omnipotent,
It’s incomprehensible.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019
Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate.
-Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry
collective exhibition space vibe community
interactive narrative brown neighborhood
defined commodified Indigenous
identity tone-deaf decolonial
narratives populist intertwined
exhibition curatorial vision
culture local artists arts district small galleries
DIY spaces speaking out against
gentrification displacing shelter
studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism
collective mantra underdog art savior
corporate entity partnering insensitive
ignorant collective brown people art
contemporary work that may not fit
into establishment art galleries
media advisory venture collaborate
creative community authentic
local statement of expression excitement
creative energy arts district project
many levels collaborate local
creative important creative
community what that collaboration
looks like ongoing local artists going
to be engaged in planning commissioned
project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum
directors professors burgeoning landscape
cultural framework critique talk individuals
entities inclusivity open
dialogue opportunities project
conversations collaboration discuss
your projects share our work with you
common ground work together healthy sustainable
accountable decolonization
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage
their dancing flames asked me to come closer
I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless.
The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators
I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care.
When I arrived the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil
For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.
The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.
: come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward embracing fairy arms
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)
So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town
Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless.
(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Inventors of the past
Curators of the future
Writers, speakers, dreamers,
Teachers of great potential.
They have read, written,
Shared the bountiful food of wonder
-Unable to be conceived-
Only partially decoded
Who are we
To take the reigns of such magicians?
To think innovative thoughts,
To uncover precious words
hidden by the legendary dust of rustic times,
To transform, evolve,
bend the titanium frames
constructed by gifted architects,
To be new
Defiant, different
Right or wrong?
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
A world of desolation
And romancing sewers:
Rotting animal carcass
Asymmetrical,
Compacted in art
Galleries
And praised for its realism,
Curators drawn to its
Intricate textures and
Cobblestoned streets—
They sprawl,
Like a cannibal's playground.
Twisted-
A street map
Spilling over
Like their stomachs.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
Our city lights,
however small in comparison,
nullify the countless Stars
of the wondrous night Sky.
Perhaps
this is analogous to how
things that seem to be
so very close,
so very small,
so very benign,
so very familiar,
so very attainable;
things of our conscious creation;
can preclude even the very awareness
of far greater,
far more beautiful,
far more powerful things;
both external and internal;
both transient and eternal;
and why we must
take great care
and
act with great tact
and
act with immense respect
if
we, as mortals:
curators of reality;
are to be trusted
with such effervescent potency.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
I sense loss and yearning all around
I used to chalk it up as a personal hurdle to jump
or just the feeling of aging while the youth still goes on
Yet I think I this malaise is widespread
Impacting all of us in our glitching global trade
I used to think the issue was there’s just too much now
Too much to watch, listen, and taste
You don’t need the hunt anymore
Don’t need to wait or pay some exorbitant price
I used to feel overstimulated by the streams
and just could not decide
I still feel, it’s not that we want to do the thing,
but we yearn to want to want to do the thing
again
Is that all that’s changed?
Those who are not ready to be creators
will certainly not be ready to be curators
Freed ourselves from DJs and TV programming
but what control have we flailed ourselves into?
Wasting hours a day watching 30 second videos
whose categories are heavily curated
impersonally, just for you
Remember when user preferences worked
and in searches they wouldn’t hide the whole list
of all that was relevant and new?
Jan 29, 2024
Jan 29, 2024 at 5:21 PM UTC
Our ancient lineage contains folds encapsulating hidden wisdom
unfurling at the weathered edges.
Curling inwards in attempt to direct us to the origin.
Source.
Deposits of insight lie within our bloodline,
spiraling beside genetic codes we have carried through lifetimes.
The quickening has arrived,
through comprehension acceleration and universal language of Love translations.
Verdant roots nourishing, allowing spiritual nutrients to enhance our brilliance.
We are
Telluric creatures:Natural teachers
essential to the transfusion of energy between the moon and the sun
We are
the ones, responsible for our is-ness magnification
outgrow foundations we have constructed to keep ourselves from seeing past this self inflicted ceiling.
It has withheld us from feeling anything beyond this consumeristic dogma implanted in our society,
force feeding us its enigmatic conditioning.
Detach pre-determined thinking to allow this ever-flowing journey of contemplating mysteries,
abolishing worries of fear in the becoming.
It takes courage to assert ones self beyond what we have been taught,
to unlearn ready made thought and rewrite our own scriptures.
Our ligaments are sacred scrolls awaiting our blessing, allowing them to unfold
leaving lacuna spaces for existence to experience traces of our essence.
Children of mother earth in collaboration with father time,
the genesis of this breath has appointed us as divine,
intertwined into a perfected geometric composition, we are creation curators of this generation
woven into synthesis,
mastered with our gift of presence,
god-head recollection.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
We are all like deformed seraphs
With seven wings that flight death.
We conceive filthy cherubs in swamps,
That dwell in the eden of our own making.
We have inherited muck from our fathers,
Passed on as glorified heirlooms;
And like fools we are, we proudly raise
That useless dirt we crawled out from.
In an effort to save our decadent ways;
We put our own blood over our doors,
And don our fig leaves that wither
As ******* sons and daughters of the earth.
Like heretic church curators we are,
We gather choirs that sing hymns of lies,
As its melody echoes in a swift pace
To defile the hearts of the innocent.
Truth and Beauty, do we even know?
Our own replica of it, we create.
We liken it to things that poison and ****
And celebrate upon ruins of graveyards.
We have taken Death’s sickle,
And used it to tear the Book of Life.
We sleep in the mount of skulls and bones,
Where our castle of agony lies.
We dwell in the place of worms,
We have built a throne of flesh,
We have dined on decayed carcass,
And drank sulfur for wine.
We have fed our children to the wolves,
As the blood of our people
Seep in the soil of the earth,
And flow in the waves of the seas.
We have crept like marauders
Under the beds of our neighbors,
To slit their throats in their sleep;
So that we may bathe in their blood.
For we all desire to be drenched in blood,
To be covered in its velvet cloak.
Not knowing, that the blood we seek all along,
Is the cleansing blood that Christ gives.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
what has our intelligence done for us
other than soften our instinct
slow down our reflex
made us into habitual
connoisseurs of convenience
curators of insta-gratification
creatures of know it all
without the need
to understand anything
the universe just
a night sky out of reach
just a spattering of stars dot the sky
all the cosmos overhead
and we are too consumed
by the blue screens that feed
the narcissism of our egos
to look up in awe and wonder
to question the arrogance
of our intelligence
to see how little we know
about the things we know
as we have killed the view of heaven
with the artificial light of our pollution
facts blurred with faith
and we ignore all the fiction
that causes so much friction
that we allow our children...
that we force our children...
to ****** other children
boys feeling like men
poisoned by patriotism and pride
in such a rush to die
for the words of freedom
never stopping to question
the definition of the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the redundancy
never stopping
the redundancy
the redundancy of war
as we will not question the intelligence
that infects us with
the sovereignty to be exalted
by our own cruelty
how else could we excuse
our history that keeps repeating
keeps its transcripts written
in the death and blood of the innocent
mislead by prejudice and hate
taught by fear and ignorance
all brought to us
by what we call intelligence
why were we given these hearts
this muscle beating below our ribs
what good is it
if only driven
by the intellect of our minds
our self indulgent intelligence
why have hearts at all
if we never stop to listen
listen to the message
of its beating
its pounding on our ribs
if we never stop to accept the wisdom
it sings in ever silent word
words that need no definition
need no ink or blood
written down in a declaration
of its reason to be living
it needs not our intelligence to survive
our intellect to live
it has its own wisdom
the wisdom of love
and in our grand intelligence
we are too blind to see
too deaf to hear
too unwilling to feel the truth
of how useless any intelligence is
without the wisdom of love
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 5:10 PM UTC
I see a green tree. It is all I want.
A dry rocky mountain and a hawk
satisfy. To die spiritually in
the hot sun and the body go on
climbing. To take the paths among
the rocks and mahogany bush.
To feed on rock lichen and blue
sky. To not need a house.
To leave my mind in the foothills.
To climb everything but blind. In
the deer shade of the cool aspens.
Forgotten by the work force and the shrew.
Bored as a badger disturbed at
its stream. Free singing as the stream
cutting the gorge. Cool as a hummingbird
in its wet spray. Caterpillar fur.
I stay in the mountains unknown.
The roof soot of the city calls me back.
The museum women shaking their bodies
at the stuffed tigers. The meditating
curators and entrepreneurs. Burro.
--------------------------------------
Old Basho, early Spring, took fond leave of his friends,
closed his small house at edge of village,
and with one peasant companion climbed the long narrow road to
the North.
Blessed morning!
the day I left life behind
but not this world of dew.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
2004 felt so far away from 1994
2014 was another world compared to 2004
2024, and it all looks the same
Sure, we feel different; scattered, deranged
Not knowing who to believe or blame
You gave it all to us too fast at once
All the movies, music, and TV
All the books, articles, and self-help
All the DIY guides and platforms to perform
We never realized we were not cut out to be the curators
and communities all by our lonesome selves in our bedrooms
We crumble at the weight of it all, blame ourselves for not achieving dreams like the pretty people on the tiny screen
Boomer producer parents spend so much dough to help their kids seem bespoke
I'm afraid too many poors got too smart between 2004 and 2014
Too much decent community college, Marxist pdfs, and low down creatives coming together
You can't find what you used to in real life, let alone online
The 6 rich guys that run the world got scared of too many redneck dads actually liking Bernie Sanders and the new sushi bar downtown
People were getting too smart, so they flooded us with slop
to get us back to the naïve pissants we were before 9/11, or maybe even before the Industrial Revolution
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 6:13 PM UTC
all i need is you and me
to rhythmically breathe
this chemistry
let the air release
the bliss i feel beneath
the deep pigments
that compose the skin tone
that is yours like me
when i am consoled
by you, my harmony
the figments of chaos
that barricade logic
from my
barren
vacant
mind
reassure me
as any talented sadist would
that my work is greater for
being for the greater good
...that i am far from good
for i far supersede
what all talented sadist
curators ever could
and if not for the poetry
your exhales hand
my mishandled ears
i wonder
if i would ever again
be able to feel.
- end
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 1:04 AM UTC
My
white
jag
of
heartbeat
on the
panorama
wall,
scrawled
like
a stock
market,
or
lightning.
Strange
thoughts
moved
through
me in
that
swerving
jetty of
blood
slip:
I kept
saying
your
name,
as if
the air
would
part
at the
seams
& reveal
you,
& when
I went
outside
my
pulse
splayed
itself
across
the lawn.
I read
a tedious
novel
of sun,
while
around
me
families
carouseled
with
lovers.
I felt
like my
heartbeat
remained
visible
to all
of them,
that they
all
saw it
taken
from
the
museum
wall
by
careful
curators
and
presented
to you.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 10:21 PM UTC