Monday, September 21, 2009


I have recently been visiting and making a home for myself over at Deviant Art (DA). It’s a web venue much like flickr in that the sharing of one’s art, along with the consumption of others' art, is the primary point. They also have groups, commenting and favorites, like Flickr does. DA differs in that the site tends to attract folks with a bit of a darker edge, both thematically and tonally, than what I typically find on Flickr. That’s not to say that Flickr doesn’t have it’s dark side. It’s just that DA seems to specialize in it. Soft, light filled images are also welcomed there, and DA also supports writers as well as visual artists.
oats My photo - “Oats” 2009
One of the first people I met at DA was a poet,pseudonym of Hyperionic Transmissions.
He is not what some might think of when they hear the word “poetry.” His words are not flowery, nor archaic, nor twenty letters long. His themes are fairly common place, breaking no new ground there. He is not Shakespeare, nor William Carlos Williams, nor Maya Angelou.
What he is is himself. And, what I really love about his work is his ability to be genuine, to pull back they layers of his own flesh and expose his vulnerability for the world to see and appreciate or disregard as they will. I love his use of verbal minimalism to convey complex, often contradictory emotions. And what I absolutely worship about his writing is his ability to wrap up his thoughts, emotions, complex meaning, with a few well chosen words that often have such an emotional wallop that I’m left feeling like I need a post-poem cigarette. Okay, that might be overstating it a bit. But really, I almost always feel a kind of exhalation, a sudden sharp pang of emotion and then a spreading warmth. It’s all because he takes me there, where he is, with his quick and simple words.
I’m kind of fascinated right now by men who can express themselves emotionally and artistically. It’s kind of alien to me and likely part of the reason I love the words below so much. I hope you enjoy them too. (If you do, or don’t, I’m sure the poet would love to know about it.)
when we were both
stick figures drawn,
and pieced, together
with strokes of artist's hand

i looked at you with
the dots on my
circlet head and
waited for my smile

and when we were both
stick figures drawn and done
i peeled myself off the page
and reached for an eraser
i awoke this morning to workers
using pickaxes to tear up the street
below my window and it reminded me
exactly how far away i am from that morning
i awoke to the sound of jackhammers
a kissed your forehead while you slept
through the chaos.  i counted 17 strands
of errant hairs on your hairline and said

speed dial programmed
ready and waiting
for the someday when
life says that there
isn't enough time
to dial...

each number represented
#3 for the best friend
#4 for the place once called home
#7 for the business partner
and #5 for the meeting place
#1 for the voice mail
not often used
#6 for the new sister and
#8 and #9, reserved for the future,
empty and that's ok...

#2 has always been
the slot for my #1
and as the phone sits
not blinking, not shaking
and rarely ringing...

the assignment screen
screams: #2 (empty)


Postcard XI

i sweat my way through this foreign
city looking for someone like you.
when today spun into yesterday i
found myself a hotel shower
and could not scrub away
the sin in missing you...



Those last two lines, they get me every time.   

“…could not scrub away

the sin in missing you…”

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