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Sunday, September 27, 2009

Art has no audience

Art has no audience

as impetus has no time.

Art becomes documentation

as we all share in debris.

The tools of our craft of the mind

have become our prison.

We have no escape

for we take what we can claim

with us as method

and only as understood

and thus we are our own

house arrest.

We are our consequence coveralls.

We are our self-referential boundaries

without lifting an ounce in resistance.

Projection is our electric monitoring device.

We are our home confinement ongoing.

Everything we render

eventually contains us

as custodial laborers

of propagating ourselves.

As long as we agree

to collude with ourselves

we have the lives

we lead into oblivion.

We are terminal suicide

by collective agreement.

We only abide by judgment

but not by aliveness.

There are no words

that are not eventually

our obituary

set forth as self-doctrine

displacing us.

There is no ascension to certitude.

Defining is not disrobing

nor expansion to include.

Everything is all that is

left over.

Every day is always

Christmas day.

The floor of our lives

is a layer of toys.

None of them play any more

and have turned into a debris.

But we live in anticipation

as a form of evasion.

It is always Christmas day

as before.

Layer upon layer

of thought-form impressions

are laid down.

The floor is clutter-bound

and layered with reflections.

We are building a high-rise of heap.

Each life

is a geologic column of retention.

Upheaval soon will come.

We have avoidance and denial

as our liquidity

but no gravity of spirit

to embrace our deeds.

There is no art

to our living

just artifacts

as if cryptic breadcrumbs

would give us

a use of a sense

for return!

Where within us

we create as art

art has no audience.

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