Posted on: April 23, 2012
Composition VII, by Kandinsky. 1913
New additions to Spinozablue include poems from Kyle Hemmings and Howie Good. Both bring the uncanny and the marvelous to the fore in unique ways. Two things sorely lacking in Art, to our great sadness.
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A few days ago I mused about The Other and difference. The foreignness of things, of certain subjects for Art, of their magnetism. In a sense, that could be a sign of my backsliding from the Zennish path, because Zen teaches the overcoming, the transcendence of difference. It teaches mastery over the process of discrimination and segregation, two of our biggest delusions:
That we are essentially different from one another
That we are not one with the All
Aside from the magnetic draw of the Other, there is an equally strong temptation to dwell inside that zone as if it is not an illusion.…
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Posted on: April 21, 2012
PROSTHETIC DREAMS
A bird I can’t identify by its red markings visits me, holding a playing card in its beak. I feel elated to finally be remembered. But when I grab for the card, the bird darts away.
Come back, I yell, and the bird does. I realize then that its markings are actually splashes of paint or maybe even blood. The shock wakes me up.
I once took thirteen years to write a poem, if you count the mass of scar tissue that throbs in our dreams.
ENNUI
Sometimes we talk like characters in the kind of indie film nobody goes to see. To live, I say, dooms us to a life that’s never really ours. You think you know what I mean.…
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Posted on: April 20, 2012
Manga Girls Need Love: Rebel Little Rebel
Little Rebel in denim shorts, a Tee-shirt that reads Potter Got Punk’d. Her room. I’m stranded on some outpost of love, hoping it doesn’t get nuked by mutant minds. Her face is all about innocent sex pot vengeance, her eyes of some dark artificial intelligence. On the radio, a techno beat, then gothic metal w/ screech & growl. Little Rebel flipping through the pages of Egg magazine. I’m not exactly a fan of Ganguro. “The world is ending,” she says, chewing gum, her eyes, flashes of intensity, as if scanning secret codes from page to page. “People never talk to each other. They just want & destroy. The only ones remaining will be a few punk skull autistics like me.” She throws down the magazine.…
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