“… an extremely important contribution to the debate about how we ensure that every human being benefits from the digital revolution that is still gathering speed. If you read only one book on technology in the next 12 months, it should be this one.” -Gary Hamel
http://raceagainstthemachine.com
As mentioned by karthix@gmail.com (in person)
I hail the spontaneous
as opposed to the perfected.
And art as not separated
from life – how could I
chase to describe being in
an abstract or impersonal way?
‘My blue angel of cement
she cracked there and then.
A body, two, rolled on a pain canvas.’
With me, three, in frozen meditation space.
I stood of silence, my mind
blending with the red
as all the birds took flight
I unglazed her melting through the pavement,
would have if I could have,
it might have saved her.
‘He, too, the crow, at the funeral
in a tux and white gloves
is now a dead man.
It is not even his Work of Art.
That Silver gelatin print (350 by 270
Millimetres) belongs to the artist estate
and to Harry Schunk,
the man
who took the photograph.
I never got to tell her but all the same
She was my red fire heart gold. She is my
Fire in the heart of the void.’
Him? He would only paint the sky
And refused to paint himself.
Harry and I go to that tree
Sometimes and stare at a new gold vein
Trying to tell her tale.
Sweet worms massaging
Sun penetrated whispers
Of Laika still in orbit.
Before, my thoughts up there, then
They were so cold and sober:
‘I once signed my name across the sky, that day as I lay
upon the beach of Nice. The sky I since call mine
is what I will inhabit now, if only for a brief moment.
Without a parachute I stand
on the verge of the ever-vastest.
I happily proclaim ‘Take care!
as I catch air and air
will only touch me.’’
But I, the real I,
stood on the side, would never dare
to smear myself with paint, would rather
put on a tuxedo and white gloves, make the in-pieces-
lady-whole – a piece of art completed, under my control.
The shape of the body, its lines, its strange colours hovering
between death and life, the fires that burn the heart
hold for me no interest.
The leap off an old suburban house, a comment on the Front
Page of a mock Parisien daily France Soir.
I regret to reveal that she was not a part of my plan.
I created her death, I admit, but then I truly did not see her.
If so I would have said:
‘A little to the right,
over to the left’,
maintaining myself the one to crush.
An Olympic diver in his prime
avoiding so far falling
under the spell of that train-phenomenon dreams,
of brusque landings in the past
I was diving at last
into my birth-water.
This is what it was like then,
from my point of view that is,
with me on pedals then, there
in the middle of the street.
I am only trying to explain
the thoughts that were walking my brain:
‘Emotions cycle on dry roads.
Spring days hold me like
they never want to leave.
Indifferent blue, green, a tree,
in-human vegetal beast
not even trying to speak.’
He, above who later remembers:
’Across crusty paved layer quickly.
The pain she encapsulates and carries,
sometimes brings under ground
to soil soft golden. Still she sits,
wrapped in blue cloth, then red
fire heart gold. She is my
fire in the heart of the void.
If I could turn my head, unglaze, go ahead,
touch her pain, let her come to life, ask
– no tell her! about black birds in flight
tell her to give up the fight.
I would have
turned around knowing
almost what to say,
but out came only a shout:
– Watch out!
’There is something falling
– Above you!!!
For the moment had passed
when there was anything I
could have done about it.’
A book spine poem
The doors of perception and Heaven and hell
A fine balance
Ladder of years
Waiting for Godot
Transitionmama 