THE GLUE THAT HOLDS IT ALL TOGETHER

The act of poetry is the act of gluing. Take two different items. Apply a thin layer of adhesive. The mind makes the leap. I have taken up the ancient art of Collage. Invented by the cubists... developed by the DaDaists.... perfected by Pop. 

In RED GUITAR I have used two pages of music, a ticket to a dying Gordon Lightfoot concert, a map of a river in Quebec, a Belgian stamp & two photocopies.

In the end all art is about texture. How to create a surface that draws the eye in... that pleases the retina causes the occipital cortex to scintillate.

  Cutting and pasting. Very satisfying. Layers upon layers. That is how the file cabinet of my brain works. Now I am stuck.

1905:CUBISM:The Id:E=MC2

400 BC: Socrates invents a cave of chains.   1905: Pablo, Albert & Sigmund hand us our passports. Cave.... what cave?  

God is lonely. God dreams. A mirror.  My finish carpenter buddy Jesus polishes the surface of the lotus pond 2012 springs ago. The 3 wise men Abe, Ziggy, & Pab  lift up the mirror. 

The mirror shatters. 

I want a steering wheel, a road, a fine fast car. CUBISM says: no car, no road, no steering wheel, no driver.

The pieces of the puzzle... loose in the frame. The parts are more than the whole. 

The divine self seeps out between the cracks in the quick silver. You are who you have always been.

RED GUITAR: one piece of the puzzle. Notice it. Lift it up. Admire it. Put it down. Go on with your day. NAMASTE. 

RED GUITAR

Won’t you help me string the strings

That grace the neck of my red guitar

The silence opened near and far

It gives my voice its deathless wings

Ruby on the crown of a fallen queen

Magnolia seduces the colibri

The blush of a lover, the flush of a foe

At Winter’s end the funeral rose

The open mouth of Vesuvius

WInd-fall apple on the autumn grass

Tongue of the grey hound racing in dust

The peppers of fire, the berries of lust

Won’t you help me string the strings

That grace the neck of my red guitar

The silence opened near and far

It gives my voice its deathless wings

The ember bed at the jamboree

A mosquito's belly full of me

The pope is dead, the cardinals meet

The rust of the freighter caught on the reef

Summer sun on the North Sea fog

Tomato paste on the pasta sauce

In her Daddy’s car a kiss, a kiss

The parted lips... the lips I miss

Won’t you help me string the strings

That grace the neck of my red guitar

The silence opened near and far

It gives my voice its deathless wings