brand new C 30 available through bridgetown records.
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el piano de cola
the grand piano
I am not sure where this fits with other things I have but will hopefully become a series of acoustic piano pieces that will be later accompanied by more electronics.
A Poem Beginning With A Line from Ovid
I speak but everything you are keeps vanishing
like the waning blood of Kahlo’s portrait, or is it a self-portrait?
The Suicide of Dorothy Hale, as downward they recede into the depths of the hereafter. Disappearing, each in gouache, holding onto the temporal plane only for a moment for a canvas to remain as stretched as arms sprawling out for salvation.
Had you been everything, than no vanishing would have taken place.
So with this I recall the gloat of men who try to conquer other men, those of whom would never dare to try and conquer the feeling of adoration for anyone else.
Like Waterloo, Napoleon met his defeat, had he as well never known how to feel affection for anything besides conflict?
I remember where the flora really grows.
A doctrine written into stone had stopped another mans bones from turning into jelly. As Saskia held the flower in her hand that Rembrandt had depicted, a pollen constellation that looked like evidence from the forlorn champion son of Phoebus
I still remember the star.
My consolation written into this sky of desires, those that are forbidden and obtuse are always the most sought after. Just how Phaethon refused his fathers urges and rode his wish on the gold chariot to his demise above the clouds. To this day I recall the clearest night sky and the deepest of my wishes always unfulfilled, how if they are granted would most likely kill me as well.
I can smell the flower.
Than I too bearing this hollowed skull of the man I once was can see the moon like another man once did. His civility of humane intention brought him to the ground where his road would end and not begin again, the dearly loved John F Kennedy. Yet his death also did not come before visiting the stars where Phaethon had been before.
From the second story window, the third story begins.
As I command to the world a series of omission, my deepest secrets. The sink I would clean spotless, to remind myself of the power that water beholds. This same water that brings life into all living things of this world. How once my mother used a seed and this very water to bring a flower into fruition, all the way to my bedroom window. This was the beginning of where I had written for years glaring out into the bleak hopelessness of the foggy winter window to be uninspired. Finally to rejoice by the sprouting petals in their healthy arrival by the spring.
I will not die in vain.
Like the View of Arles and the Flowering Orchards, I would consume the image every waking day. Knowing that passion is the true killer of good men.
“The sadness will last forever”. The last words that epitomize Vincent Van Gogh.
Tortured, yet yes you can still resume and use these tragedies as inspiration.
For each instance of whichever dreadful portion is thrown at us, we shall review within its damage, a hidden promise of healing. The medicinal qualities of circumstances that will never be explained. Are these the trial and tribulations that have forced us to sign an affidavit to the soul stuck in our bodies? I am no witness to a past life, but born into this, he says as I to feel the yearning for change.
How the mind can wander and create yet another story.
Coughing in the later years, fiction was unwritten and the truth was spoke. If only Nat King Cole was president would we justly straighten up and fly right, while reveling in the stars once again. Always reminding me that we’re apart. I admire anyone who looks up more than they look down because I’d rather know my ashes barely stabbed the sky, than to become a piece of rotten earth.
I don’t want to be a person, I am a human, I am an animal.
The eagle would drop the snake from his mouth and the snake would coil around the wolf, and this would startle us at dusk. To hear the howl in the distance, not knowing that this is a cry. An unrequited love, which brings forth the narrative climax, the infinite mystery that will be the persistent constant for all new creations.
Although I cannot read the stars to you, the constellations can resonate their spiritual truths within you.
I can read a book and that can inform me of my own shortcomings.
I cannot translate the sound of the wind into an edible recipe, but the wind continues to blow in all directions and you can choose to follow or contest with resistance.
I write to wish that everything you are comes back
like the sound of crickets bantering by the pond
or the crows pecking poolside for leftover suppertime
or a Winter’s afternoon dream long over and done.
Teeming from the negative space of where you were
resilient clouds pass by to reveal the convergence
of a painted black sky, jet black on a tint of raspy blue
the pinholes of immaculate conception, standing in the beyond.
Kevin Gwozdz
Green Rivers
As if carved from the ghost of past adventure,
limbs of trees swim like bones carved off Cadmus’s blade
I had swam through Eidolon and it’s laborious depths of the precious blood of life
had I seen a reflection so clear, one would see more than they would want to see
paralyzed like the gorgons face would upon even a mere glance
and my face in the water had turned to stone, immortalized like Narcissus
and no iron clad could dare to go and disturb ancient water
The continuous stream, nor sink a ship into the depths of history
yet had I known that such insolence could exist like a faucet that always runs
I myself would take a bath and revel in my own filth for a time of adoration
finally to experience the death that comes with infinity, apotheosis
the purging of my own human flesh and existence
to be the fleeting memory and truly become a suitor not fit of morality
that I am the river continuing yet ending and beginning the same
how it is written over and over and over, again and again and again
but always it changes as we become self aware, the omniscient forces at work
sitting in their desks among the clouds, could any of this be real?
Or is it the run on sentence that is the stream that I pray comes from other hands
a challenge of short comings becomes and makes itself known
these are the troubles that will remain rhetoric
intangible elements, such as; if Rilke lived past a poisoned thorn
then would we finally know the answer to Love?
this riddle that is unabridged and seamless, my concerns finally scare me
that I know the robot knows the human and the human knows the robot
but it’s what we will never know that keeps us alive but
I’ll find my tombstone as the last piece of literature I’ll never know.
The Night Paused
You will do some emotional work
I will do some emotional work
You’ll be okay.
You don’t know where I am,
And you say “you are always so far away”.
The Noise Man
I have “an eternal fear”
harrowing such thoughts carries a severe burden
all my reservations must undo clawing at an electric keyboard
a pursuit for meaningful fuzz pockets ensues
knobs to shift the weight with it’s boisterous manifest
creeping from reel to reel little by little the answer will come
I predict failure.
A guarantee embedded for most outcomes.
I have four walls of camouflage, a speaker wall lay to rest my contempt
this harbors the sound and underneath, my self-doubt
innocence becomes a willing victim of others bad intentions
the only refuge for a bedroom musician is just that the bedroom
I found this true and quite haunting that there is no hiding from myself
all my secrets splayed into an artificial speech
reality and detachment
a synthesis of feelings.
how astonishing it must be existing sacrificing and believing in ignorance
such nameless purpose is inaction
a living nightmare
yesterday I lived in Baltimore
today I live in my bedroom
tomorrow I will live in Olympia
Kevin Gwozdz
