Doodad

If emptiness incarnates as existence could that mean that there’s no “the world”?

No world in the sense of something causing what’s happening to happen.

A something having an independent substance meaning there’s something substantial to these thingumabob artifacts.

So they’d stick around even when not being experienced.

Leaving behind the jettisoned world of dearly departed.

What if “the world” as the behind the scenes given took a powder?

Because if what is experienced is coming directly from emptiness.

The peg upon which reality hangs might drop its drawers.

Exposing reality to be no more substantial than watching a movie.

So that all going on there is what’s cooking here.

Like it all started with a blank whatever.

Something unformed empty new.

To make something unsubstantial assumed to be created substantial.

Since it got captured shaped moved edited performed it must have existed.

In another state.

In the past.

If the world was actually once there when was it?

Is it possible to experience the past as having once been there?

Not if the past is always recalled in the present moment.

If so, “the world” as having an independent existence may have just taken a hit.

May have unless things really got blown to smithereens or shot to death during the shoot.

Except that’s not what’s going on viewed and seen in the art as imaged.

Patrons catch their breath. On cue.

Taken-in by the suspension of disbelief.

If so, the credence given to reality must be different.

Where things do get blown to bits and real lives are lost.

Because to assume otherwise could implode the metaphysical house of cards needed to feel safe and secure.

To ask when any art ever left the present moment might nuke the wall between past, present and future.

Even worse suggest the phenomenon world might have the same metaphysical status as art.

Existence as metaphysically aesthetic?

If so, to prevent a reality meltdown.

Past events might need be assuredly assumed to have happened.

In a past that’s never been actually experienced outside of now.

If the problem doing metaphysics is no way to prove what’s being proposed is false.

Mass agreement might be needed to believe it so.

Because who needs something to be true in order to make it appear true.

Why couldn’t the world as experienced be fundamentally art?

If art happens to happen in and of.

An art world.

Reality re-imaged.

Theater, dance, performing and fine art.

Effervescent bubbling volcanic blood brew.

Corroding hermetically sealed walls between art and reality.

Aesthetics the metaphysical sense of reality.

Where universal is particular.

Concrete abstraction.

If because.

Art happens everywhere all the time.

Presuming God the Supreme Artist.

Asking if there’s can be another spatially present moment.

As world art comakers?

Artist is audience as selfsame world.

If so, could an aesthetic sense blanket sweet dreams?

As if reality is indeed art.

Jailbreak where art only thought possible.

free be

Tall tale

Is it possible to enter the world from a webcam’s perspective?

Like an artworld being streamed.

If so, what might make “life” a webcam experience?

Noticing how music breaks silence chains.

How painted surface on blank canvass pains.

Needing empty containers of who’s contained.

Worlds strewn galactic form time space.

Pointing the way to rebirth.

If the all first be vaporous.

To incarnate intricate is.

Metaphysics aesthetic of existence.

Emptiness violated.

These splattered worlds askew.

Clear glass sound barrier broken.

Showplace artworlds showing.

Seen font-row seat within.

Peering eyelid window lifted.

Yours yours.

Mine mine.

Each uniquely private.

Flung open.

Waving.

Passerby walking talking breathing.

Rows of rose garden gesture.

Ears microphones.

Eyes cameras.

Mouths speakers.

Live-streaming booming studio world.

Blasting out how.

Breakthrough-breakout concocted?

Cracking shell escape.

Frying pan firefly free.

Watch how all flee.

Out looking in to be.

Artworks on the fly.

Virtual-reality sensory symbolic?

Crossed-over because crossed-up.

Distinction without a basis?

Seemingly seamless unseen.

Spiral free-falling masterpieces?

Grounded to marry the ground.

As rooted fruit.

Basket stolen literally representational.

Taught this ticking alarm clock to talk.

Ring-tone armed alarm.

Not too late.

While dead be dead
Dying death gracefully
Nothing takes a life
If death only dies
Life only lives

Wonderland

If death and art was one?

Why might it be so?

World caught auspicious bubble.

Unknowable void’s graveyard.

Supreme potter’s caldron.

Magic brewed indeed.

Tasted cup of lentil galaxy soup.

Spinning spun whirring whirl.

Glazed at midnight.

Baked dawn sun’s over freshly flesh.

Artworld of inanimate animation behold.

Took Art Center’s centered pottery class.

On how to animate a lump of clay.

Making it decrease and increase.

All comings and goings made possible.

Walls tilt inward.

Leaped inside father’s self-portrait.

Jesse Philip Olmes, painter musician teacher, 1912-1996

Found who seeded me.

Oiled notes trumpet my refrain.

Gifted lasting last refrain.

Sightly temporal hue.

“Can Apollo speak the voice of Dionysus?”

Buzzing booming vortex swirling belted anew.

Cracked dried story dabbed wide-open.

Spilling spellbinding lace of space.

His eyes follow across the room.

Try to hide.

Inescapable foretaste of arrival.

Stepping stones to count death’s breath.

Wonderland always been in such plain sight?

Hell fire heavenly lit dixieland band bright.

Wishing it would never end.

Supposing it might.

Crucified suspension hung hug tight.

“None get out of here alive.”

“How so?”

“None arrived alive.”

Drum hearts beat as one.

“Where am I?”

Lake rain drops call did fall.

Pointing the way home.