Chaos in Chalk

chalk face liege and dairy tcrop

The I only sees as the line draws.

I used to draw freehand sketches in ink I call chaos drawings. Since I acquired live-in grandchildren, I have de facto transferred to a new medium: chalk. I say used to because I haven’t drawn a chaos sketch in ink for some time, but I’ve done a lot of sketching using big fat sticks of colored chalk I buy by the bucket for me and the gkids, usually on the sidewalk in front of the house. I take dpics of the ones I like, and people walk on them; rain eventually washes them away. The chaos face above I drew on the blackboard wall at a local super-premium-makes-your-ass-want-a-pinch-of-snuff ice creamery called Liege & Dairy, with the chalk provided. My grandson drew a body to my head, it looks something like a scarf.

chalk face ice cream shop w ollie luck

Ollie likes his finely branded, crafted and curated, totally non-ironically ironic ice scream with gummi worms, thank you:

ollie liege and dairy gummi worms

Hymning to Myself, Letting You Listen

crow puddle tcrop

Some Vedic hymns or chants may possibly have preceded language, originating as something like the human equivalent of birdsong. We sang hymns before we had words. We worshiped before we had God. Worship as a behavior preceded the language and concepts our gods are made of, and may be prehuman.

God, the voice of, heard as form of pareidolia, in the chant, like the phantom phone heard ringing in the running water of the shower.

Per Kepler, we think God’s thoughts for him. Divine apophenia.

Saint Francis preached to the birds, not because men would not listen, but to incite the birds themselves as his fellow creatures to praise.

I know which to prefer:
The terror
of silent innuendo
just after
the blackbird stops whistling.

I rang sonorities on the soft bell
of yelps, sang hosannas
haunted by the glad pains
we took to erase all the psalters
of cacophony, bred crows
under green light
as a sacrifice
to my one bawd of euphony.

Caw, caw.

Steal This Meme: It’s a Kafka High

Im on bug powder

“You weren’t supposed to see this”

Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing has never happened, still it is conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never. Against the feeling of having triumphed over them by one’s own strength, and the consequent exaltation that bears down everything before it, no earthly powers can resist.

Franz Kafka

As Clay Shirky, author of Here Comes Everybody, puts it, “The stupidest possible creative act is still a creative act.” Words to live by in the latter days of the Internet Age. Steal this meme. 

Hi, Spike.

Random Photo

self shadow graf at hip

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.


Random Photo

trump blazers ky state fair tcrop

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Jimbo’s Custom Blazers booth, Kentucky State Fair, August 2019

Bonus photo of…Jimbo?–

trump blazer salesman ky state fair tcrop

I was at the State Fair sitting a booth as a volunteer for the Kentucky Fairness campaign. I discovered Jimbo’s Blazers on the way to the mens room. Evidently, Kentucky Governor and number 1 local Trump fanboi Matt Bevin was wandering around the exhibition building sporting one of these…wearable Trump multiplier devices, but he did not visit our booth and I did not see him elsewhere at the fair.

Bonus State Fair selfie:



Broken Cento, Strange Islands

She who loves but a span of air

We have beheld her in her mourning,
the brown, broken ivory

of dendric bridges,
The river of crepuscular blood

rising to erase the ruined algebra,
The broken loops

nailed into her perfect shoulder
she who loves but a span of air,

Her stars, lost in the slant
tunnels of rain, drown as needles in her own waters,

The heavy lift of swollen air
drops wings like anvils

wounding her limbs with prayer
she who loves but a span of air,

Note: This is one several mutant texts resulting from my attempt to construct a cento from poems in Thomas Merton’s The Strange Islands. I found the title searching the online catalog of the local library. It was an original edition from 1957, located in reserve shelving, meaning that it was an orphan, banished from general circulation. “Strange Islands” intrigued, so I ordered it up. (As an aside, I do occasionally wonder if any of the old card catalogs are gathering dust on their blond wood in dark storage rooms, or were all trashed. No more pulling out the long drawers of typed index cards and flipping, flipping, Luddite.) Merton’s poems in this book were a little too much about their serious subjects, so my muse rejected his similes in a straight cento, and began to baroque them up. I’m not sure a reader could find their way back to the original Merton lines from the above. I’m not sure I could. As with almost all the poetry or simulacra thereof I post on the Tent Show, this is not a final version of whatever it’s supposed to be a version of. There are no final versions. All versions become final when abandoned.


Scissor Dance: Jive Serpentine

Continuing today’s dance theme…


*A Scissor Dance is a collage cut and pasted the old fashioned way, with scissors, glue, and a stack of old magazines.