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Whatever you say, say nothing by Samuel Dodson
The groaning echo of buried warriors holds itself confined in the mossy rocks within the ethereal tumulus. The deep mist which shrouds the shoulders of this place – this space – hangs on your eyelashes. Communal mythology would have you believe this within the confines of the hollow earth lies the entombed Celtic king. You stand in the mist which conceals the border that lies hundreds of feet away. As the hairs on the back of your neck peel themselves upward away from your skin, the superstition of danger becomes envinced in your mind. It stands as a black crow upon a farmer’s broken fence post. It sounds like poetry,…
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Can you trust the artistic eye of a poet about to be executed?
It was a perfect day, when I died. The sun searingly bright as it hung above the haze which met the end of spring. Leaves clung to branches with a vivacity which would make poets cry if they weren’t indulgently expressing themselves on opium. The wearied birdsong, lackadaisical in a sultry heat, brought the flash of Xanadu to the grains of sand which had buried themselves beneath my eyelashes. Shadows had crept throughout the day, seemingly separated from the objects they attached themselves to. There was a distance between my body and my shadow, a fissure of light which became a schism in a rock-face, a void within galactic space…
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Ice
Light cracked in the ice. Refracting within the confines of the glacier, reflecting itself. It was within the colour of the glacier she saw herself, eyes realigned, Picasso-picture-perfect without a touch of a smile on her lips. With the echo of the frozen river reaching her eardrums she would have cried had she not thought it so burdensomely cliche. It reminded her of standing beneath starlight in Paris, with the moon dripping down her back. It reminded her of the night nothing had happened. Without action, without words, it was that night she felt the most alive. The sporadically inspirational effect of inaction. The thought of it clung to her…
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Rings
for both to say I might have raised your hand to the skyto give you the ring surrounding the moonor looked to twin the rings of your eyeswith mine or added a ring to the rings of a treeby forming a handheld circle with you, thee,or walked with you where a ring of church-bells,looped the fields,or kissed a lipstick ring on your cheek,a pressed flower, or met with youin the ring of an hour,and another hour . . . I mighthave opened your palm to the weather, turned, turned,till your fingers were ringed in rainor held you close, they were playing our song,in the ring of a slow danceor carved…
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Mundane brilliance. Dull inspiration. Static love.
Dust has settled on the long grass during the summer months. Whipping knee high at bare skin as it runs along hidden pathways the farmer will use. An innocent breathlessness resonates with the crickets which hide themselves from easily misplaced footsteps. The Moon Too Slow To Rise. This would have been the field we loved in. Tracing time in our skin. Forming memories. I would have held her – she being small in my arms – as she ran her fingers through mine as we waited for the sun to rise. Warm Summer. That was before the bomb hit. Before they contaminated the water with chemicals which cut the stomach…
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The Limit
What kind of man cannot let his eyes linger on shadows? What kind of man feels the etchings of timeless traces on his mind but not his flesh? What sort of path is this for a man to choose? I looked into the face of death, and I said “no.” I’m close now. Closer than I’ve ever been before. The seconds mean something now and the minutes matter to me. This timeless drifting voyage is reaching the destination we set out for, so many lifetimes ago now. I can taste it, capture it on my tongue whilst my skin comes alive with a sensation that had been forgotten in me.…
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The Sense of Existence by Samuel Dodson
Laughter dripped through dappled sunlight, stopping only at the feet of shadows. Spreading itself through winding couplets, touching warm soft heat and permeating souls. Light vibrations leapt along the ripples of the water and quiet echoes coursed along the veins of the mountains. She stood with him beside the glacial pool as the red dawning sun shed light on a dark impasse. Standing in this lyceum, with the petrified stones flinching at one movement of her feet, they lay beside the pool as day crashed into the valleys of the world. They waited for the spots of the sun to cross into night and let the breath of the darkness…
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Immortality
My pupils are too constricted to stretch fully and see. Those lashes are too obtrusive. There’s a certain feature of mortality that provides clarity. It defines us. Defines the way we think. Even if that means we try to think alternately to the way we would otherwise think, we wouldn’t do so if were weren’t so bound to death. Our fate provides restrictions, limitations which help us define moments. This moment. You will never be as beautiful as you are now. I will never know whether I should have tried to kiss her or not, or ever fully work out what the word antidisestablishmentarianism means. If we work with and…
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He Looked At The Ground And At What Might Have Been
Light sifted dust onto the picture-perfect masterpiece he had painted onto the inside of his eyelids. The hairs on the back of his neck were drenched with the warm humidity of the shower he could not bear to take. He felt the steady flow of blood through his veins and listened to the echo of a city he couldn’t quite remember. His typewriter lay where he had smashed it on the tiles of his kitchen floor. A void of ink stretched out around it in a halo, draping itself around the manuscript. He snapped the shower off and treaded softly into the kitchen. The ink continued to spread itself across…
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FEDERICO MASSA (A.K.A CRUZ)
FEDERICO MASSA (A.K.A CRUZ) SOLO EXHIBITION February 19 – March 2, 2011 OPENING RECEPTION: Saturday,February 19, 6-9pm www.ienacruz.com Graphite 38 Marcy Ave.Brooklyn,ny 11211 Open hours: Wed Sun, 1-7 pm www.graphiteny.com www.graphiteny.com The latest news in contemporary and modern art in New York, London, Paris and Berlin
