In reply to someone’s “hot take” about how major media doesn’t give a shit about poetry (whatever)…. I replied:
Do any poets give a shit about major media?
Roll your own chap books, build your own culture, wander widely to find your audience, make *things* every day, stick poems to message boards in grocery stores & telephone poles next to lost cat flyers, mail 500 poetic postcards a year, find the renegade youth to mentor, transcribe stories from grandmothers, but every used great copy of poetry you come across for $3 and abandon them on buses with a note, go *everywhere* just to find coffee shops with a good table in the back corner and write so fast you’re inky pens run out.
Then paint poems on post boxes, make a painting of the poem on the post box and do an exhibit with other paintings of post boxes with poems (preferably at a goat farm in the country)…
Strangely, people show up, people ask questions, people want to be part of whatever it is that they’re doing even if you or them don’t understand it.
Doing these things, I find very little time for erstwhile mass media or even submissions to *highbrow* literary journals (plus rejection letters need a return address and well, I don’t always have one).
Poetry is for you to create and share with those who seek the goods. Carry on accordingly.
Spectacled, heavy on a rosy face, hidden among stacks, drawing inventions of maps – delineating frontiers between playful apparatchik and fields where the healthy and husky scrambled games I couldn’t be bothered to learn the constructed rules of play.
Naming regions of gravel and grass in derivations of Iowa towns and possibly Balkan enclaves. Tracing roads across trucking routes and Roman ruins built to the width of chariot wheels-cemented as standards for mine entrance bringing a horse to shores, away from relations to new lives, absent from home still never known beyond memories, Serio-graphed into filtered ideals.
Yet an unsteady hand and overall disconnect, or even indifference, which led to a place to “settle” – build a house from logs, and seasoned by time, after hewn, nailed and assembled by saw blade and heavy sludge, forged by a possible cousin who always remain a stranger. The blade remains anonymous as an un-muttered pithy quote en route to cliché.
Neither did exploding suns, brilliant and fleeting, assembled in patterns, ~ shared by the patient and measured in Newtonian units – still could not muster a journey – hence gazed, but ignored as impractical, nigh impossible.
—
Translucent layers, super-imposed and stacked, detailing azimuths, trajectories and elevations – separating fertile valleys (though subject to floods) from talus slopes too steep but for mountain rams on the shady flank of Timpanogos.
Dotted dashed and surveyed, specific dots explained in legend denoting assigned capitals, provincial outposts, and occasionally hamlets determined by polled populations, overseen with constructed superintendents, supported by varying address of retainers.
Intrigued by absence of obvious order though not my task to chart.
Instead, as per instinct, selected and committed to memory, devoid of context, thin slices of knowledge swirling in a petri vacuum – accurate as such, but irrelevant
—
So i journeyed to wonder about likely motivations which took Normans, Pharaohs and troubadours beyond the point of unknown return. Capes left in wakes with dates and hard-track to fortify a quest alleged to diagram flora.
Among them, I reference guide notes from decades past – as vague as possible to acquire allowing white-space and risk. Packed in burlap next to a survivor’s stove and pouch of seeds and spices and an important black pencil. Only planned to go one way, impartial to return rather to chronicle the unfamiliar.
The familiar left far behind as physics might allow – exchanged possible comfort in normalcy for uncertainty contentment in ambiguity. Meandering concentric routes, devoid of patterns or ready purpose.
—
Answers are easier in cliché, ergo:
“I’ll know when i get there” –
Town to creek to roadside conundrum – I swirled each in mouth , pretending my palette featured a vocabulary to explain to unseeing why I hadn’t settled for seemingly ideal locales, situations and specific circumstance to flourish.
Eventually, after farm toil, beach frolic, rough nights in dangerous morass, leaping turrets of ruins and painful heaving, missed junctions and forgotten aims, at a campfire in a lake-forest with a khaki-scout familiarity, I stumbled through an unfavourable gale, onto the intended coast
I mocked myself for misnamed non-discoveries, i assumed as fragrant promised lands of plenty allowed to the intrepid erstwhile accidental navigators.
Teased over misread hieroglyphics and misappropriated meaning to stone wheels quarried a far, hauled by double-hulled craft powered by taro and current and fickle breeze.
I could no longer mock with unearned disdain, the vaunted and faulted explorers, stolen secrets leading to some anomaly errantly pro-claimed as new or proper or divine.
—
Earnestly deterred, i occurred to map a universe of flesh and thought. Breath and sounds assembled into meaning.
The crease on cheek, the measure of brow, the angle of toes, magnitude of halo surrounding chameleon eyes and the mysterious enthusiasm of all which exists between.
—
Thwarted, not by scenery but by shaking confessions, fumbled after a stealth crossing at an indifferent frontier town. I’d escaped to my holy land I presumed for an instant before minor catastrophe.
Stalled at an unwelcoming inn where i laid myself bruised and bare to a lover temporarily transformed to a stranger after i let the truth languish, vanquished by the uncertainty of resolved and fear or wounding the occasionally innocent.
—
She walked out vested, blithely, pithy saying “I know” unwittingly perhaps offering just enough loft to push a tattered sail across a colour-coded sea mis-named as somewhere calm.
—
The explorer hides. Alone, entirely lost and surrendered to fates incomprehensible to the battered. Uncontrollable by the hostage. Yet clinging to an adrenaline determination to manufacture strength to another foray.
Monk-like, minus faith, discipline, dogma or skill at ringing bells, relying on rice gruel and fragrant hope, the cartographer gathered charcoal, fired for unsteady hands, and a redrew boundaries to conceive an entirely new Pangea with concessions to speculate, plunder and charts assigned exclusively to only two.
pondering amateur cartography whilst waiting for a bus
Re: Amateur Cartography
Over the wall to seitai treatment (as such, obligatory bus stop snappie for evidence) with The Weakerthans in my ears… this song “Aside”, i coulda sworn i wrote these words, just not in this order. In a notebook scribbled in a suitcase no doubt. Maybe The Neko Nekos will cover this too (i gotta learn that baritone ukulele – Also adding to list: singing, learn how to do that (although I do sing “little blue truck”)).
Ichiro doesn’t know it yet but we’re gonna make a family The Linda Lindas cover band when he’s a *lil* bit older with his Mom & me. We’ll call The Neko Nekos and try to be at least 3% as cool as the originals. Its a perfect plan. We’ll make shirts.
“Aside” by John K Samson (allegedly :))
Measure me in metered lines And one decisive stare The time it takes to get from here to there My ribs that show through t-shirts And these shoes I got for free I’m unconsoled I’m lonely I am so much better than I used to be
Terrified of telephones And shopping malls and knives We’re drowning in the pools of other lives Rely a bit too heavily On alcohol and irony Get clobbered on by courtesy In love with love and lousy poetry
And I’m leaning on this broken fence Between past and present tense And I’m losing all those stupid games That I swore I’d never play But it almost feels okay
Circumnavigate this body Of wonder and uncertainty Armed with every precious failure And amateur cartography
I breath in deep before I spread those maps out on my bedroom floor
And I’m leaning on this broken fence Between past and present tense And I’m losing all those stupid games That I swore I’d never play But it feels okay
And I’m leaving, wave goodbye And I’m losing but I’ll try With the last ways left To remember, sing My imperfect offering
Fire it up:
Update: learned G & C on ukulele today. next, the world
Dave working on healing at Peacock Ayurveda near Galle, Sri Lanka (with Dr.)
Amidst a thunderstorm at 4AM on a balcony in Chiang Mai, Dave discusses – with excessive frankness and emotion – various medical conundrums (Fibromyalgia and CFS-ME) and details the physical feelings of “crash mode” as well as the mental strain in dealing with self de-identification and inter-personal relationships, confusion in seeking help, and various alternative treatments.
audio story about #MECFS & #Fibro, just click play below
“On The Road” – Learn about Jack Kerouac’s classic novel in Kobe
“On The Road” – Learn about Jack Kerouac’s classic novel in Kobe, Japan from July 3 to August 8. This book is the fountainhead of so much what we now call counter culture – breaking out of the illusions of postwar malaise and sparking so much of what we know to be true today about personal expression, practical freedom, and mind expansion.
This exhibit will feature rare and unique editions of Kerouac and contemporaries books, typewriters and a faithful reproduction of the original sc/roll of On the Road as well as a speaker series.
Also: a fantastic guide about On the Road for Japanese readers made by Prof Theado and his classes outlining and explaining much of the unique vocabulary, slang, colloquialisms and cultural references – plus a rundown of Jazz musicians – from the book specifically for Japanese audiences.
Sure hoping all comes together safely and we can celebrate this story together after last year’s event being thwarted by public health concerns.
snippet of poetry by me (Dave Olson) for illustrative & amusement purposes
“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! “
Let’s Enjoy! daveostory.com/shop – Paintings, Postcards, Poetry, etc.
+ Paints, Posts, Poems + (with tea)
Construction underway, the elusive and complicated “operation turtle” {requiring lawyers & money but no guns #Zevon} has progressed a tiny step amidst absurd requirements and Ichiro’s all registered for nursery school which means I am “back in the studio” for a bit making envelopes of treasures for my customers, yup, customers.
You know I make postal treats, poems and paintings for love but hey, gotta pay for the copious ink and endless stamps so hooray, sign up and receive things… wonderful items, sometimes slowly (but that’s the postal systems of the world working diligently amidst *all of it*).
Fondly, dvo
ergo: Oh I’m making things today, making wonderful things and sending to all sorts of spectacular folks. My business ain’t fancy but it filled with heart and art. Ya on board?
Reading the Sakura leaves to know the present, the past and the future well… Whatever it is.
+ Postbox Haiku Exhibit at the Goat Farm: In which I combine love of poetry, painting and postal mail and recaps an exhibit at buddy Mac’s goat farm.
So happy to share my mixed media project with a new audience at a very special place
Gist: Produced by dDesign to promote Okayama design, tourist and culture, the campaign included a painting in Shibuya as well as paintings of post boxes and office in: The Vatican; Kathmandu, Nepal; Olympia, Greece; and, Muscat, Oman as well as a new haiku on a postbox about “nonconfidential postcards” along with a book of paintings, a book of postboxes, and postcards of well… postboxes with poetry – both painted and functional.
DaveO at Goat Farm with postbox haiku, both sides now sport a custom poemTransported the paintings in a velvety suitcase (notice the key for keeping them imaginary safe)The paintings of postboxes had custom postcards with shodo ink by Junko Fujita and decorated up with appropriate postal and inky stamps by me
Rocking a plaid track suit, Dave catches up about an exhibit of postbox haiku and paintings at pal Mac Kobayashi’s goat farm and in Shibuya by dDesign and shares the story of the post box haiku and painting plus details of: Kathmandu, Nepal; Muscat Oman; The Vatican, and Olympia, Greece (including accompanying postcards of course) and riffs about importance of personal archeology and making things for future generations while drinking including coffee and jamu and digression about persimmon chutney.
Special ahoys to Gary, Beth, Arild, Jared, Erin, Sandra, Lance and especially you.
Postbox haiku exhibit corner at Rural Caprine Farm (more to come)
My renegade pal Sooby (Sohaib) Ahmed is a fine poet in the “romantic” tradition (think Shelley, Keats et al) and often sends along his work for my edification. This one came along just before Ichiro came along so sharing here for the record.
Though S. and i enjoyed wild adventures together in NYC/state, Providence and other environs, our most ridiculous times came the summer 1991 with dozens of Grateful Dead (and related) shows, music festivals, psychedelic parks, and the infamous Taos hi-jack incident.
Despite all of these hi-jinks, i don’t have a handy snapshot of him so instead a flyleaf of a book i mailed to him from Sri Lanka included as inadequate visual addition.
~~
I wish there were that us There were, there were Like we only did make Like snowflake make So too could and have when It snow so like that, And it was, it has So its, such as, only such as In that way, I’d had Only and as we melt I’ll ask, I wish And, a way Its all the less cold then there Would be getting a wish Being it so selfish The snowflake we chance can be Should I but be so Brave and have Wouldn’t suiting our imagination Say can us both but be Suited also, for it, I wish, its a wish for yourself So its, such as, only such Only and as we melt I’ll ask, I wish And a way Of it, if it, That too heartfelt a what, What a heart-felt for always.
