When we open up, we let Life in. In a boat, with buffalo and goat. It’s just a matter of ya ya yes. And the, the more you understand the open, the more you recognize it. The more you seek for it, the more wide your world becomes. And Life boat becomes less tippable, equipped for all waters and with goose and giraffe.
She wisked up a tornado when I let her have the clouds and the grey
She shook night so hard that it turned into day.
She then grabbed the sun and bit in the middle
and now everything’s bigger then when it was little.
Everything isn’t art to me. It might be art to somebody else. And I respect that.
I look at a pile of rocks and I see a pile of rocks.
I haven’t trained my eye to see beauty in stuff like that.
When I see laundry on the line and it is blowing in the wind,
when I see a moose in the clouds or the shape of a truck my son has drawn,
it makes my heart twinkle
and I consider that feeling, art.
If something can give me feelings other than what I was feeling, it’s art.
I feel, more so than I see, art
and that’s why everything I see, is not art.
Your antelope ears and wrinkled persona!
Your grand entrance and bifocal’d leisure!
The habits of your style
are the blessing at the table.
Your hands of porcelin,
the super age of the sensory.
I am the kingdom blind
the sensible and perverse
the one who takes all the willows
willingly down to the shelter
those bursts after bursts of experience.
I learn well.
And so should you.