Tag Archives: Art

Roll The Dice

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.

– Charles Bukowski

reisinger_2_1_o

What is undone, appears empty like a valley, matures slowly, in its authenticity, creativity appears imitative to its opposite, that which to overcome by moving towards a dialectic sense of silence, activity, tranquility are covalent in there return to end of  beginning.

Line 5 The use of emptiness reimagining

Between heaven and earth are a great bellows, in its emptying its retains its power, moved by the creative, not disturbed it sends forth presence, to much directive exhausts the mover, leaden grudges seal the passageway, your inner being guard it, keep it well and free.

The earth away, artifacts of dissimilar purpose, everything included everything, the flint knives and mammoth teeth, Plato’s eidos, wind remembers mind, both move over immeasurable distance.

-Josh Fleming, some words may have been sutured with my own, don’t remember the source from when it was written, thanks be to those that may have helped.

Image by: Dan Reisinger

 

The Edge Of Things

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We mistake our downward-spiral for that of the world, the radiance of forgotten suns, leaden doubt, to sink with the heavy weight of seven spheres, or cast wonder back upon the ledge where we rest on the edge of things, raised to the octave higher, to the outer-most exteriority and back again.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Tatiana Gulenkina

http://www.tatianagulenkina.com/six-hours#/id/i9418144

 

 

Behold

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Behold…your lovely shell, unending, yet falling away, already it has begun, yet it outlasts the sun, the ripening and ruin of the flesh, the universes as far as every star, the wild musician, hear again, in silence in fury, followed by echo that is your own, torn apart but so complete, in solitude the mirrors disguise, yet languorously flows beside, fleeting birds that dive, into the waves made of nude twilight, as gold enfolds the shell, the corpus is complete.

-Josh Fleming

Remixed and Re-Imagined with words of my own from: Rainer Maria Rilke, Buddha In Glory and Stephane Mallarme, Little Air.

Image by: Tatiana Gulenkina

http://www.tatianagulenkina.com

 

 

 

Street In Agrigentum

ThalosIsle-port

There is still the wind that I remember
firing the manes of horses, racing,
slanting, across the plains,
the wind that stains and scours the sandstone,

and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons,
overthrown in the grass.
Spirit of the ancients, grey

with rancour, return on the wind,
breathe in that feather-light moss
that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.

How alone in the space that’s still yours!
And greater, your pain, if you hear, once more,
the sound that moves, far off, towards the sea,
where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning:
the jew’s-harp vibrates
in the waggoner’s mouth
as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow,
in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.

-Salvatore Quasimodo

Image by: John Howe

http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=4885