Object #1, #2, #3, #4
#1
DATE 2016 SIZE 15 x 21 x 7 incheson the high rocks of the Aegean islands
lives a bearded seer with hooves and horns
the seer sees, the seer tells
of the sights he only sees in the open seas
of the birds and the fish and the boats and the ships
and the things that get caught in the nets of the men who fish
the only seer, the only witness of all
he tells of travelers from a faraway land
travelers strangers to the salted waters
packed in rubber boats wishing to cross borders
they move after dark so they are one with the night
towards a land hidden far from sight
all wrapped tight in floating vests of orange
they delve into the waves with such courage
the black rubber boat gives the waves a beating
as the harsh sea continues insisting
then the night swallows all that can be seen
by the first lights of the early morning
the seer spots the boat that’s been hiding
by the land it is lightly dancing
but there is none in it to see the shores advancing
they must have turned into fish the seer thinks
for their vests adorn the bright blue seas
the fishermen spread their nets over the waters
they pick what’s left of the travelers like orange blossoms
the seer wraps up this tale for there is no more to be told
scratches his beard and looks around at his loyal audience, rocks of ages old
as you and I bathe under the vines of Bacchus
on the same rock in the same waters
#2
DATE 2016 SIZE 25 x 28 x 4 inchessmell the salt
the foam on waves
brings to you
brings you, takes them
black of night
the black of air
filled rubber
wrapped in foam
takes them
wakes them
to a dream
of western pyramids
behind links of
chain fences
white water
a shadow at night
brings you, takes them
the sunken endless grid
in dream white
salt spread roofs
caught in morning fishnets
the foam on waves
washes the islands
brings you
swallows them
#3
DATE 2016 SIZE 40 x 21 x 4 inchesbeneath a grid of cloudy houses stretch the roots of a golden fig
it is deceiving how big its trunk, how wide spread its branches are
for it is a tree of only a few years
its seeds were buried in a garden of a home that once was
by distant neighbors waters away
all eyes near and far watched its rapid growth in awe
as its heavy roots unearthed everything in their way
first it was the mailbox, the other trees around
and then the outhouse, the dog house, the pipes
its fruits fell on the grid of the tile roof, shattering it with deafening thuds
then the entire house was lifted in the arms of the golden fig
crushed slowly into a pinch of dust and thrown in the wind
now the golden fig rests atop a hill clenching the earth
on another land with hardly enough room for its knotted roots
a woman visits its branches every evening
for the golden fruit to take home to her kids
in the nearby town of houses of clouds
which never will be or never was
if it was, though, it would be right here
perhaps under the sheltering shade of this age old sycamore
because every town should have a sycamore in its center
with a fountain with running water
a coffee house or a tea garden
where I tell this story, in the sheltering shade of the age old sycamore
#4
DATE 2016
SIZE 20 x 20 x 4 inchesthe sun resting on the foamy white Aegean
waves frozen in mid roar
a sandcastle
or two or more
gridding the landscape of the beach
this fleeting moment
before the swallow
paused within a frame
that divides the “here” from the “there”
shows the part and hides the whole
of shadowless sandcastles
for shadows take time to grow
and avoid the fleeting being
of shadowless sandcastles
of the shadowless people
