Sketches of Style
On the Artwork
Preamble
The title for this collection, “Sketches of Style” is from a dream. Also, I think even more subconsciously I am inspired by Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain” as this collection seeks to emphasize the element of style as a core aspect of the stream-of-consciousness practice of improvised writing, taking precedent over content and form.
The theory behind these writings is that style is an outpouring of perspective as perceptive choice, as in the idea that perception is based on active choice. What you see and register in your mind is based on your levels of experience and notions of reality and creativity. Because we can change our surroundings and ourselves, I begin from the source of my ancestry, which is predominantly Jewish-Mediterranean (from my maternal Grandfather) and so all of the historic and current occasions that I experience are inevitably transformed into a unique sense of self-understanding, grounded in my sensibility and aptitude toward a mytho-poetic persuasion in my perceptive and conceptive modes of experience, realized with increasing personal significance. Finally, I purport to share these realizations through my creative writing as an expression of style in formation as my own being undergoes a kind of formation that inevitably culminates into a complete obliteration of all recognizable forms unto a new way of seeing as the emergence of a unique style born from spontaneous creative practice.
Sketches on/of style: this collection highlights how my writing is not true poetry, rather sketches of style, that is, stylistic renderings of momentary instances, trails of thought, and imagistic devices to bring forth a harmonious and sometimes very dissonant balance between word, meaning and context, whether physically bound by page or voice. These are sketches and remain figments of writing, and are meant as a muse on the importance of challenging and making dynamic what is written. The basic intent is to practice an immediate and raw expression of mind, as sketches of mind to give foresight into insightful analogies between the unique experience of writing and collecting these sketches into a unified collection of writing.
Sketches of Style demands that what is important is not WHAT is written, but HOW it is written, i.e. emphasis is on form and space. Free Form demands that what is important and only important is that there is writing, where emphasis lies on spontaneity, groove, rhythmic stirring and pauses inherent in simply getting a page filled. Poetic identification in strings of words may follow the sympathies of freedom, when in fact, form is not freed unless style is present, as style acts in the life over the author, their certain style, at its blank, utmost vulnerable state, open for all to see in word sketches played over a loudspeaker of a strange mind asking too many questions.
Sketches of Style also utilizes a Free Form editing technique, taking certain phrasings and putting them together from the entire collection of writing, e.g. typing the entire collection as one body of work, going in to extract and replace passages that fit together. Is this similar to the cut-up method? It is sometimes more, sometimes less haphazard a creative process, yet intends equal spontaneous verity.
1st Independence
An irony to amuse
This, my, and our patchwork of brains,
To walk, or march,
Perfectly balanced in dress
With the polluted eye of an urban observer
Taking in the sidewalk trash as the stuff of inspiration
Enduring base feeling,
A diversion from breast-fed born legs
Awkwardly striding over to beer belly friends
Nude, in style with whitewashed sneers
In the backwater morning
Of a deeply Southern dry comedy,
In one outlandish, unruly day,
Simultaneously, all vibrations still,
To skeletal ghosts, ravaging the blank canvas of history
With painted cries
In the evil fornication on a wine-lush express
Down each and every late Saturday street
Dead with incestuous chores
In popularized & Westernized dreaming
Gone, gently in the summer prairie heat,
Dealing prostitution’s cape
To starving Italian business owners
From every pocket dived into and craved
As the Chadian eye-dotted gypsy
& Celt white lady brews a voice
Beautifying the monoxide curse
Of the modern air, from her belted chords
Taking significant amounts of money from the swooning wheelchair,
Tempting a gaze into the swollen core,
A feminine race, feeling angry and forlorn
With a whole range of active choice
Besides being under one hat, laughing cruelly at tradition,
Erasing the blessed nation of the Southern Blacks,
Who migrate to Cowtown to shed war
And transcend the western edge of Sudan
Cutting into the flesh of its firstborn Muslim brothers
In Darfur pleading for no more religion
And no more war
As they are succeeded by the newest nation on Earth today,
To receive billions more in lies and stolen gold
From their prophetic English brothers
Breeding a kindred sisterhood
In the tall, and greatly embodied community of passionate grace
In today’s great human victory against the undead tyranny
Behind eyes of such genocidal trash
As Khartoum’s infamous leader,
Now leading the world in diplomatic respect from their East African wives
Charging, as yet un-waylaid by the rash & mundane international war,
Cyclical pain follows in succession
To unchain confederates, bothered,
From American poverty
Filling the sobbing eyes of migrants, sacrificed
To a brutalized ending, motherless & lost,
The ending and beginning now unite
In one great cry of Independence
Won alas, to pray for no more useless dying
And give over our best heart to the soil that birthed our human pride,
A simple urge,
To find a space where fighting is replaced with celebration,
And the inhumane is replaced with Love,
And the displaced find their homes on Earth as one common being,
Struggling together
Age of Fire
A burning world,
Spun with awe and worshipped beyond death,
The spiritual recluse
On a steep decline
Passing without Failure,
Churning with Thirst,
& Separated
from life,
A gown-sunken monstrosity
That all of a sudden, apparent, becomes wealthy
With the storm-wrought ageless tomb of rush hour
Along Centre Street and Trans-Canada
Lines betray the trans-queerness parade
Launching anti-masculine dress
Into the strange façade of a car window,
Faking actual dismay on the way home
After a delicate bite,
Onto thankful trickery,
The bold and forthcoming
Arm the lackadaisical whimsy,
Teaching oceans to rise
With mundane maturity, to grope at the pantomime hour
Talking in fashionable curses
Murdering tradition through freedom, choice and youth movements
Of peace in America,
Lonely sorrow, an afterthought
To the forsaken moment,
Holding onto the bloodied mother
Begging for forgiveness from a colonizing surgeon
Masked with local wisdom, touching skin like it were stone
Seeking retreat,
We march into timeless glances
Between cloud-forged eyes
Carefully woven
In the imagined laughter of a small-town god,
Unified under the banner of fear,
The hovering eye of awakening
Claims desertion from community
Through normalized individual identity
In a morbid stock,
Fed on the putrid waste
Building blind subconscious reckoning among modern, industrial humanity,
Whereby dignified ecology is bound to vocal slavery and victimized vocabularies
Unlearning class
Gymnastic hole of irreparable visions, of difference
Clarifying the wronged children who stutter with untouched minds
And pander to the quick divorce of darkness from a vibration’s gloom-full heights
In sanity,
While the roaming tongue of pure expression finds disbelief
In utter timing and gross decaying,
Frail bodiless humor,
Shrugging off libido
From wine-glass huts of the Eastern wilderness,
Forgotten seeds and nourishment
Strangled by headlights and nasty misdirection
In the European heart
Grown cold by winters stolen from lives
Mad with common trust
For the double-faced, equal-armed cross
Becoming personified in a transmission
From moonwalk stirrings to popular magic,
Night blazes with an unidentified love,
Looking back and forward, once a simultaneous confidence
In the average soul
Sunk in the sweet golden noon,
Napping away, the wretched mental worm,
Whose salted eyes burn the world in fantasy,
Ages as old as righteous killing
Tasting drops of infinity in the sky’s holy whisper,
The rising Actor mocks Gaia’s blessing,
Knowing that Her smoke blows sure as the current’s luring
Uniting the first & final
Bleeding aurora…
Blakean Consciousness on a Rainy Day
eyes
homes
Bless the failed pilgrim’s march
Cajoled Spine-Tap
City Birds
Co-creative Wondering
Contemplation’s Itch
empty Blown mind
Epic of Intention
Epistrophic Misdirection
find Inspiration!
Of a warring ocean disengaged from its godly host
Imprisonment
To the first serpent’s pure and unclaimed gaze,
Fragmentary Being
Grand Repertoire of Failure
Guise of the Beloved
Horror-story jazz
Live life and Die
Mad artistry
Manual speech, a felt language
Natural pleasure
Obviation from the BLAND
Of human sound
hall,
body
activity