The Eiffel Tower Poem

the
night
does odd
things like baking
me a cake with my favourite
frosting or taking me bunging jumping
from the top of the Eiffel Tower on a Wednesday
or making me chocolate cookies with walnuts
and pecans the kind that my aunt Alma
made with her bare hands and
a dough board in the
summer kitchen
in the house
she lived
in

Cartesian Meditations

I am reading Husserl’s Cartesian Meditations backwards, as phenomenologist do most things back to front. And as it’s much more fun and less intellectually dulling {Sartre be damned} I will continue on back to front side to side, or some such nonsense and dross. Perhaps I should give serious thought {were I to have such things} to Ego Anonymous or Tractatus Anonymous {Wittgenstein be loathed} and let the cursed fly out of the cursed fly-bottle. But first back to reading, and might I add, I must indeed I must, without the aid of hands, spectacles or a bookmark.

Green, Red, Blue

Egon Schiele

Id Ego Super-Ego

Not-Being-There-there

I am beset with besetment; the sky refuses to acknowledge my beingness, my being-thereness, my being-in-the-worldness. Skies are like this, so I was forewarned, so my complaining falls on deafened ears. Pray tell, why would a sky, any sky, bother to acknowledge my being-there, being-here, being-in-the-moment of there and here? None I would imagine, none whatsoever. My being is incident to a sky’s being, a sky’s being a sky at all, so why the belly aching, you might ask. Because I need to know, I have a strong hankering, a need to know where I sit with the sky, where I am in relation to the sky’s being, its being-there, being-in-the-world, its skyness, so to speak. It has come to my notice that the sky, any sky, is a whore, a whorish whore, so I best leave it at that and get on with the day, my dayness, my being-in-the-day, my being-there but not quite, just a hair off, a hair out of the day, a being not-quite-there-there, anywhere.

Man Sans Hat

Lucien Freud

My Grandfather's Leg

my
grandfather
had
one leg

he
used
for shooing
birds

from
the
scatter
of his thoughts

Yellow3

Quail-egg Blue

Colours evoke and revoke simultaneously, what they give they take away. My mother is a colour, red perhaps; my father the colour brown, the sky quail egg blue, the moon yellow-white-yellow. The strongest colours are those that signify nothing, have no colour yet evoke a palate of feelings, moods, evocations, senses. Colours do not exist outside they’re evocation, they’re sense, the moods and feelings they evoke; juxtaposition, nothingness, my mother, my father, quail egg blue, yellow-white-yellow, brown.

Red Dance

Black Red

Black Yellow

Spine

Dog

Blue Yellow

White

Drake Green

Green

Orange2