French rhyme: NO BEGINNING

No beginning
The traveler’s tree is
A bookstore I’ve seen.
Been wanting to meet
With Hemingway and his team.
His words should be here founded,
The cobblestones tell me.
Seller of trees hasn’t
The faintest idea.
Raindrops wipe footsteps clean
And earnest.
His words should be here founded,
No doubt in my mind;
Even the blind can see
The magic of culture,
Hiding between real life
And the next.
Too bad they can’t share their
Vision on facebook.
A canvas, sure,
But a blog would be better…

The age makes for the fantasy –
Hemingway’s right there.
His hair much shorter,
Much more acne,
Yet the signs cannot be missed.
This must be the great man’s tavern,
Although surrounded by ten more:
Place de la Contrescarpe –
Home to talking boulders.
The pen I’m using for this record,
This futile seeming account,
Does as it pleases, leaving me
A liar homeward bound.
It won’t be coming out tonight,
That record-breaking piece,
L’oeuvre poétique that will
Savor what we seek.
…And Hemingway is gone…

An intoxicated fool cries:

Art, art, art,
Your genius resounds –
An artist’s heart pounds
In the streets.
Wee-ooh, wee-ooh…
But when those sonic waves
Will wade and fade under
Diplomatic pressure,
Not laissez-faire but
Ransacking,
Disrespectful leisure,
There’ll be no-one left to meet.
Beards will we beards,
And wine will be weird,
As history repeats itself
And the artist genius flees.

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Moment of sanity, Part I: The Genius

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the genius. The genius. The genius in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Please let’s make one thing clear: I am not a genius. I am not the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of infatuation, of being thrown back by the force of the genius so hard that he is pulled onto the horse it is riding for a moment or two.

It is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe. It is Hemingway, Godard, Gaudí, Picasso and Dalí that I see. And it is them that I first visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. Paris is in my way, and Montpellier, Barcelona, Figueres, Marseille, Rome, Athens, Thessaloniki, Istanbul, Vienna, Prague, Berlin and finally Essen – and they are also helping me – as I reach for the genius. The unforgiveable, (un)wealthy, unhealthy, blasphemous, sexist, insane and infamous genius.

Those unattainable little fuckers that never seem to think about good and bad – at least, not the way you and I do. That would never give a journalist a straight answer, unless he was upside down. That would never give the crowd what it wanted, but autistically sought to make it want just what they created. And we would finally cave…Yeah, art is not so much about good and bad, healthy and unhealthy; not in the brain either.

Given the idea, then, that art is not essentially about good or bad (health), what good would it do a pioneer to the quest for true emotion, a seeker of the unknown known to walk the path that hath been trampled on before? We are all trying to be good, trying to be healthy. What is a genius’ business sniffing around the bushes of the all-too familiar sane world? Maybe for some bread at times, a place to stay. But really, the genius creator, the artists we all love and hate (oh, we are so good) will carry madness in the mind. Bad hair. Bad teeth falling out…And he loves the way his tongue fills the holes in his mouth, that he curses.

My humble little behind out to find its kindred souls…