Wednesday, April 25, 2012

My Ineffable, A Nihilist Romance


The digitization of the violin
Still still sends shivers pass the spine
It was a clawing
Stand in the curl of a lost emulsion
Rolling along the avenues in the wind
Like a color wheel before the drumming rain
Lagging like a meditation
And still still yawning in the tired souls
There is a power that evades reality
And it happens I met faith as she was leaving
Then found her when she was lost
And as she journeyed shallow
Into the flickering reflection of her soul
To find nothing in the cave of mind
It merely appears that I lost faith
A still still wandering above the all

And so the insanity no longer listened to itself sing
It just barreled on
Unlike itself
Like it wanted to be and no more
A nihilist romance
Sexual percussion
Continuously crushed in a dense
Music is a dragging
Drawing from the eternal weight of a fading era
The death rattles of industry
Seeping out of touch
The thugs of Old Europe were drowning
Yes I was watching the passing of an age
In their sleeping eternal souls
The shards of junked sound
Forging a space for communal reflection
Between the egoistic clutches of reasoned relation
The shadows of the intellect sewn
Spit numbers that mashed the light
In fettered paranoias
Of maniacal chaotic blessed dead lines
Calling for the sense of the matter
To dream of empty days
And sprung the ruthless cutlery of amorality
The continuous unraveling of repentance
And the tighter I strain my eyes into the abyss
The more lies I become
The more alive I become
The stilled (e-motion) just shakes itself free
Wavering spring ephemerals
The hips are the philosophers
Vata dosha swaying in the long of night
A ceremony of youth
Vanquishing the olden soul
By the spirit of the dance
To love life to the fullest
And cling to the light
At the close of high reason’s tunneling
Eternity achieved in blood
Letting the death of every moment into thy heart
To never die
And on the Seventh day
Harlem’s song was barely audible
In the still hum of the process flow
Sworn in tomorrow
To stare at the walls of a digitized public
And a quantum leap pulled us through
The moment was just perfect
Nothing more
So the nihilist fell in love
With nothing, all too true



Muchas gracias por la inspiración, Alfa Art Gallery, www.alfaart.org, their music festival, Omega Sound Fix II, April 20-21, 2012, and particularly the sounds of Strnglv, strnglv.bandcamp.com


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

My Ineffable, My Torture, My Love


It was a strange evening
Once my colleagues had died down
Descended the glass staircase
Towards their other lives to rise
And elevate the spirits of my thoughts
My sleeping nostalgias
Still buried in the process flow
Hung on the drying lines of form
And reason checked her grip
In the boasting of spring ephemerals
We all need a little heart
In the Technicolor logic of life
Lamenting the loss of the ego
As the day sets firm
Into the dust of memories
She stood in the wake
A Peruvian mountain
I felt like a vapor
Shaping her curves
Whispering to the recesses of her vision
The groves of her intellect
The blossoms of May apples
Listening
To the wind in the pines
And there was a trail of wine
Housing a congealed residue
At the base of an empty glass
That we’d come to rest our heads upon
For making love to our imaginations
When the evening was a stranger to me
And how was she so beautiful
While I was dearly missing?


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Thursday, April 12, 2012

My Ineffable, Drawing Lines out of the Resonance


I am clean.  God’s child of the yohor.  Dancing with the devil in an always newborn nomadicism.  A rhythmic changing of the concepts partner dancing on the floor… the lines were trembling in my solitude as I brushed my hair through a dream.  Stood swaying in the dizzy breezes of my exhaustion.

And there she was.  Drawing the lines out of a Siberian memory.  An elegant air draping the animal corpses of the hunt for her love as trophies of her wicked predation.  Or as stains of her guilt if her mood was dark, those bloody spots that just wouldn’t come out of her garments.  Those tortured faces of little deaths that just wouldn’t lay to rest and just kept on, silently caroling their final contortions.

She’d lived enough to tell, she thought, what was hidden in the tempered manners, what was lurking in the groping expression… searching for the lines that might without a digital trace breathe of Russia and silence the public air, leave it echoing of passion, barely even hollow, a sweet kill of life’s distaste for all things terrible and picturesque…

An innocent wonder… drawing out my lines that I haven’t lived enough to feign a jade opinion… that we’ve never lived enough to claim as sweet a kill as the corpses of our aging might beckon to wear in fur and posh to celebrate, hanging from the walls we’re like to die within… the fading of our innocence, the onset of our reason… if we’ve never lived enough, then there is nothing left to hide.

And so the shadows of children inquired unto the aging ghosts, in their glum fantasies of princesses and Russian palaces, dancing with their pelts and summoning the animal spirits in a line of nomadic hush that huddled a room of stares and chattering retreat into the sheath of mystery… what is so delicate as to wear thy terrors with grace? … ’las, what is so elegant?

The eastern front was slain and it was back to the west for her, for me.  Reasonably distinct.



Muchas gracias por la inspiración, the cell, www.thecelltheatre.org, their exhibition, LINE, April 5 – 25, 2012, and particularly the work of Cara de Angelis, www.caradeangelis.com


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com

Thursday, April 5, 2012

My Ineffable, Americano Tragedy


In the sunset spring blossom
The dirt was ugly
Fallen petals rustled like snakes to the warmth
Beckoning to me to disappear
As I am never quite alone
But always with the angels of my thoughts
The lakes of childhood
Rocking on the fringes of a gentle sadness
While futures level
To the raw essences of taste
The aspirations of class
A legal motion compelling
The good faith of interconnectivity
To sever its distractions
An honesty bearing silence
How deep does a light heart run?
Don’t stop breathing in
The only thing I see anymore
Is the quality of refraction
In the sun set barely essential
Like a crystal to disappear
An image that was waning
At the drawing time was near
I could feel its respiration
She passed a final word to me
A summoning
And I listened to the scattering of the ashes
As her close alluded my attention

“Leaves scattered in the
Rustling of winds
What to do with this
Life
Sometimes the greatest work of all
Is to loosen the work
A masterpiece concealed
In those beauties carry hearts
Through mad avenues of minds
Sweet nothings to the ears
Of generations
Reigns reins collectively tied
As life goes on déjà vu
Becomes
In everyday occurrence
Hollowed out seen through
All the same
Once conceptualized
Déjà vu au courant
In viola convex recurrence
Now existens in silent
Sounds’ absent concave troughs
Le discours du violon
Americano tragedy
Carried like another day
Na housle je ty
Valerian of the violin”*


*Excerpted from Tango de la Materia, Jason Greendyk


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com