Years ago when as a family we traveled to the South looking, collecting art (mainly self-taught African American art). We were in this gallery. Conversation gets around to David Butler. A genius. Wife dies and he decorates everything in sight – his yard, windows – everything. Whirligigs – bright solid colors. So intimate yet a vast happy playground. I mean he had to put his love some where. So this gallery guy says, “yeah, David is alive living in a nursing home.” We find it. Go to visit. He’s over 80 – maybe close to 90. No teeth. No hair. The sweetest face ever surrounded by stuffed animals. I mean surrounded. The boys are like “what are we doing?” David remembers nothing of his house –his yard masterpiece. I’ll be damned if we leave there without some recognition. Finally after ½ hour or so his eyes glaze with a subtle joy, an almost “wait, something clicking”. His eyes just light up & tear forms. He goes “I remember”. We were knocked out. Can you imagine Picasso forgetting his Blue Period? Or Ginsberg forgetting Howl? It was our duty.
Yesterday, the radio on, this song strikes a chord, “wait” I think. I know this. It’s Hole. Holy mother my heart breaks & I remember. God I love Courtney Love. Her beauty, talent, balls, pain. Walk in her shoes for 5 minutes. People have been such assholes to her. She doesn’t give up. She goes forward. It was a big YEAH. My soul hovers over the fence.
Today in the library I notice an old bunky. Going home. His smile was “this” big!
Mine, same size. “Never want to see you ever again, except way different circumstances.” Another survivor. Realized the bros I hang with all for the most part don’t have a ton of time – under 5 – 3 years. See I’m alright. Another beautiful day. Wrote to Evan Henry. Hope when he is older he treasures our early communication cause grandpa is in prison. What tales to weave.
I drive Kelly crazy – used to drive Stacy. I edit & re edit and re - edit big time. “you edited the joy out”. I’m a butcher woodcarver. Bring that baby down. Down to essence. Sometimes, “nah, that’s cool” so here’s one from 102007 entry.
free range convict
I recollect, even in our sleep we surrender.
Virginia Woolf found every pebble
on that beach to make stone soup
Alas, forgot to switch coat.
upon these 10 toes I stand
determined. question & never define.
a good man better than some/worse for wear.
hell, even remember purpose of confederacy.
between greed & one’s prison is 3 squares
never to stand upon yonder.
chair with rope necklace.
never sleep in anything
What do you think? Yeah, free range is a reference to the yard & free range chickens.
Here’s a new poem –
(to continue the astronomic metaphor)
eloquence of silence
& we shall meet, again.
this prison rattles neither cage nor consequence
see before yr existence I staggered. roamed a
Spanish conquistador, of sorts
point being everything was explained
complete & utter sense
it’s just taken nearly 50 yrs to regain.
now I do
& understand in a way to difficult to defend, so by way of
Jules Verne wasn’t just a tremendous author
& pigeons rarely have question of flight
a hand balled
open & extend(ed)
invitation. a greeting. perhaps, “there will never be a vast difference”
I leave with this thought, thought of space
coexists between here/there
we shall close
Tootles – may all our joy be large. Large enough to share. Bring home to others.