The Tick-Tock Man

That old clump of wood used to chant. People round about for miles would come hear that old preacher’s son sing like an angel; we all used to sit outdoors in spring, gather our children and pluck them chords till the early evening hours closed in; that tower above would ring and ring – I…

Arnold Hauser: On the Baroque

 Caravaggio – Supper Party “The striving after the ‘painterly’—that is to say, the dissolution of firm, plastic and linear form into something moving, hovering and incapable of being grasped; the obliteration of frontiers and contours, to arouse the impression of the unlimited, the immeasurable and the infinite; the transformation of static, rigid, objective being into…

The Watchers Are With You

One would hope for weeping. But this? This silence surrounded by strange clouds; doubts and forebodings, black muslin – an unknowing darker than you’d imagined even for this gray zone of purgatory. Or, have they come to judge you, hiding as they do in sackcloth and ashes? They know or do not know your past sins,…

Table Rumors

It sat there like a bullfrog waiting; watching. All week those porcupine quills jutted out – spiked soldiers of some fruited war. A leafy top-hat turning yellow in the sun broke through the crown – a chieftain’s plumage. One day mama sliced it clean down, and sunshine fell around us like little clowns. You tasted it and…

Fatal Strategies

Do you think you could have saved her? The martyrdom of leaves betrays you; the livid cast of sky above reminds you of all the lies that broke this plastic life. There will be no place you can hide, no haven for your pride and sly deft hubris of the bone and nerve: the troubling…

Bird of Death Dreams

She came home alone. Emptiness. She listened for him in the garden. He’d often walk along the river’s edge. Even the elms are shaded today she thought. Her daughter called. Cried. No need to come. Her and death were old friends now. Talk. She saw them around the edge of the field. Wings like black…

The Night of Knives

Maybe more than anything it was the gin she loved, that way of forgetting things, a short oblivion, a dance against the “night of knives” she’d say; as if those memories would rock-a-bye on bye forever. Sitting there in the airport he listened, knew it would never end, her pain; winter mist and fuel brought it…

The Lute Player (Caravaggio) – A Prose Proem

One wonders if those soft dreamy eyes could murder? Would he have already seen Ranuccio Tomassoni bleeding on the streets? As he sat there blankly watching on while his master delicately plied his brush, what tune beyond the Florentine’s sole text by Petrarch’s “Laisse le voile“ would he have played; his white neck exposed, that chest so…

A Night’s Grotesquerie

  Dressed all in white, a black rose about her neck – a ship, cruising the south seas of her mind. The one who used to visit her when bubbles brimmed and eddied round this old white tub – lost these many years among the grit and soot.  She used to live here eclectically in a junk-bin, a…

Something Young And Beautiful

She notices something young and beautiful out there beyond the cobwebs – a white stallion roams the knolls just there where the horizon meets the sun – he’s neighing like some fiery dragon down the years to her – and for one moment a stirring trembles in her mind – Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized…

Framing The Emptiness of Light

Sun flakes can’t save it: timbered up and closed in upon itself like death; pages from a torn life, driftwood hangings – her shade below an open roof silent and alone, framed as an empty remembrance of flight and light. – Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission…

Fall and Fade: A Tale of Roses

Moments like this vanish, fading like those stone roses on the mantle, where your mama used to light candles just after twilight, in the grey time between, so that your daddy might come home to her full of smiles and those little white lies he charmed her with so elegantly. She’d forget the bad times, the…

The Pretty Hat Seller, Old

“He showed me nothing but contempt and took me for all he could get.”   – Fracois Villon I was sitting there as usual just bidding my time, when the old hat seller Marge came in plopped down, took off her filthy jerkin – her toothless grimed hubby ragged her. She didn’t have many teeth either,…

Dark Earth: Poetry of Dean J. Baker

“I keep walking, making calls which few recognize, eventually sure that one day when I have passed that way, suddenly a porch light will shine in the evening and another timelessness reign.” – Dark Earth, Dean Baker Been reading Dean Baker’s latest offering of poems of late, Dark Earth. Of course Dean is an author, composer, and performer…

The Journey

Close your eyes set sail upon her flesh-home ride the currents of this ocean breeze up and down the waves where secret isles jut up surprised by little bumps and mounds beauty’s dimples now follow down the spine where clefts and ridges like hump back whales surfacing from declivities go unrecognized as laughter sounds upon the heights and…

Charles Baudelaire: Lilith – The Damned

In glistening shot-silk she seems to wind Sidelong across the floor as in a dance, As when a gypsy waves the mystic wand That puts his writhing viper in a trance. To the barren dune and desert sky Humanity is an irrelevance; In coiling and uncoiling like the sea; She manifests the same indifference. Her…

The Masque of Misrule

  “You are a cruel mistress of misrule, a leech, a blind machine, a useful tool.” – Charles Baudelaire Saurian eyes look out of the green lime hedge Beyond the portico, her stone intelligence Misprisions me within this opium maze: Swift laughter’s heart betrays its skill, As shadows prey and whispered feline wiles Quicken an eagle’s pyre on…

The Black Prince (Satire)

It’s true I complain too much and loudly, but even Emily Post had an unkind word or two; while you… you say nada, nada, nada – as if nothingness was a word for love. Maybe I’m wrong for hounding you, dog of my bone: you prance around, pout and pounce; yes, yes, I know the truth, I’m an overbearing louse:…

Leavetaking

What is loss but a leavetaking: a slow sailing across white seas, a severing that will never bid goodbye; even those leaves that fall, attach themselves to other leaves, windblown gatherings: motions on the dark horizon, floating, challenging: a smile more frightening than life itself; and, we, the breathing go on down this lonely road, our lives like winter foals upon an open field;…

Mandolin Lady

She’s a country girl no doubt can sway you: her smile, sweet freckles, the grace that has no need to tell; she’ll call you where you stand and break you of that wildness; and in that moment she picks the mandolin a spell commences, another world arises: a fire out some old Irish by and by, her fingers dancing on…

Relations

“Shine here to us, and thou art every where; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.”    – John Donne In the meeting of our eyes we knew it, this other we’ve become: this separate more inclusive one – a relation larger more expansive, speaking to us inside this sphere; disconnected from our former lives…

Open the Dark

We never really see what’s there in the dark but if we try real hard it will see us and in that seeing there is a knowing beyond telling one that stays us even when we cannot see – Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission…

Honky Tonk Dreamer

There was no sadness no laughter no light she’d long given way to that myth: night in, night out she waltzed in that dream the one that held her to this thin scarlet world lost in the maze passing other shadows, other lover’s – indifferent to their charms, wiles and lies: she found me warm…

The Lover’s Pact

Even now you can find it where the old oak still stands down by the river, by the muddy bottoms, where the brown flows on – carrying us away – Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

Hallucination #1

Originally posted on attempts at living:
There is an undeniable need for health. Biophysical survival depends on being healthy, and you can forget any autonomy without it. Basic needs give way to expansive desires and both collide in the expanded notion of need located in Marx. For instance, in the Grundrisse  ? Not only do the objective conditions change in…

The Gift

Love comes not, yet gives when least expected, not that it would unless belated- ly we who are love’s slaves brokered our release; dismayed, we kiss, then fall away. This day to leave you standing there, we’d know that time remains unmoved; but only if and when you turn, and in your turning touch the maddening lips…

Tangerine Days

  We’ve been here before at this crossroads – maze and leaves, the slow growth covering the forest floor; tangerine depths, soundings from a distant glen. Afternoon thoughts amid the pines.   – Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.  

A Living Thing

Motion. The very movement of this orb, the calculated turnings, the currents of its flight, swimming there like a teardrop in darkness, floating… What would they think, those alien presences beyond the thought of earth, what would they say on seeing such a living thing; if they knew that under that beauty was an ugliness,…

Proofs and Calibrations: An Interview with Élie Ayache

Originally posted on Linguistic Capital:
Only Élie Ayache could take something as tedious as plugging variables into a formula and turn it into something charming. The costs of entry to his corpus are high—readers must be familiar with avant-garde Continental philosophy plus actively interested in the materiality of options markets. Nevertheless, Ayache earns a place alongside…

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