Friend of mine
Shredder Number Three, Acrylic, Collage on Board, Deborah F. Lawrence, 2008 Photo: Lynn Thompson Deborah's gallery
And, speaking of Uncle Gerry,
Harry Partch stories
Harry Partch is one of the links found on this interesting site.
John Clare
Labels: ART
posted by Lane Savant at 10:25 AM
2 Comments:
Wow, great artwork, painting and collage. Nice touch to post it on FFTR. Hope it picks up a hit or three. I will respond with a haiku or something tomorrow morning early at the office.
I am still endeavoring to get used to our brand new Mac thin line flat screen computer. It is a real mind shift after a decades of using PC's only. Joel came me some lessons last night. I may be alright after much more practice. One thing really irritating about Mac, is there is no WORD. We bought an equivilancy called PAGES. Another irritant is that all my hundreds of jpgs put on the pictorial postings at FFTR, where I went to the trouble esthetically to post things left, center, right, and so on, are now just a jumbled up mish mash on a Mac. So I am having to go back in and re-edit the placement of all those images to Center only. So now Mac is asserting itself in my life, and I have one more master, and a new set of mandates to follow. Oh woe to me, the cyber dummy that I am.
Glenn
Here it is, slick. Request and the universe will respond--or at least I will. Maybe send the artist the poetry you receive for her perusal.
Limbo Lads
So where the hell
were they?
In a Dali dream,
a Klee conundrum,
a Pollock possibility,
a Picasso picaro?
One moment they were
in Baghdad,
Havana, Berlin, and Detroit
and then not
there,
but here
in some spiraling spiritual shredder;
some with whole bodies,
some with missing floating limbs;
none with skin—
studies in cosmic anatomy
with pieces of muscle, sinew, ligaments
stretched taunt
over a strange non-human exoskeleton,
punctuated with gears, colored lights,
and unknown bulbous masses.
Where were their old bones?
These were
the lads of sadness,
who lived without insight,
who believed
in nothing—
floating together here
by the trillions,
strangely intertwined
with the infinite chain of eyes,
watching them,
guarding them,
peering right through them.
For Christ’s sake,
what was next?
Glenn A. Buttkus September 2008
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