Facebook Twitter pinterest.png  Google Plus

Omphaloskepsis Blog

I will fall in love exactly about a million times and then I will die

Feb 25, 2012


My new work in progress. I will fall in love exactly about a million times and then I will die. 53" x 38" Oil on Canvas, 2012. Here is the link to the painting progression.

You Have Astounding Cosmic News

Dear sociologists, I have been asking to explain poetry to you. Thus in the offices of dazed lute press the clicking begins. Lately we've been conductiong field experiments into our private thoughts. One faction next to the soul shaped watercooler wonders whether there's any reason at all to remember the feeling of being a child. Is it best to imagine oneself again beneath the desk as the rusted air raid siren explodes with its bi-monthly ritual Wednesday afternoon fear distribution? Like you I was always holding particular crayons in the dimness of certain morning assemblies. I have been told some of you think the only constant is constant observation. I know city planners designed the city and still there are diffusionists who pace the deep blue edge of do you know you can never try to discover why why flowers in the cubicles. Between you and me the buildings also have a space for the sparrow named never who does not sing yes the cities die when you leave them, yes no one cares what you do. The glass covered in dust windows of the thrift store display a mirror from the 1920s. If you take it it will no longer regard young lovers with important thoughs pushed toward the mighty river. I will fall in love exactly about a million times and then I will die. Clouds playing dominos agree. At Everest on Grand someone eats yak discussing the endless undeclared war among the neutral provinces. Long metallic articulated girders cast thin shadows over thousands of windows. A photograph of a pacifist smiles. He wore a whie suit, was a friend to the poor and worked for the union of unemployed telegraph workers who listen for signals pulsing as Joni Mitchell never said from the heart of a distant star. He was like my grandfather, after he died the city fathers did not know what they were building when they built a museum to encase a window in a wall brought from a far away country where it once overlooked the sea. Evenings through giant speakers peeople listen to troubled sounds whales bounce off continental shelves. Go tell everyone everything is related, the rich own the clouds, and you can always locate yourself with so many shadows to instruct you.

Matthew Zapruder, Come on All You Ghosts

blog comments powered by Disqus