Open Slathers of….
....these moments of time, are but the beginning of my processed self, where i have long ago given up the shape of being right, as i am now extolled into the more of this thing called oneness….
—-and where does my oneness spring from, if not from the heart of one who has all-ready made a master’s plan, just as this one i came to know as ‘old timer’, has also exposed my heart of longing to be an artist of some sorts….
—-my sorts of sorts were sorted, and are being sorted out from the granular grains of in-grained wood depth, that has so much been roughly sanded by the machines of human words, till i wait for the hands of one ancient as i….
————————————’to fine sand me into a work-of-art’———————————
....and what is a work-of-art when no one’s around to deliver the blows of cacophonic sounding biserrated words, till in my heart i waited to welcome the who’s-of-who, those official sounding diplomats-of-critique who must come, bearing the sounding crunching footsteps which must come to tell me of my demise….
—-long ago in ages past, i learned the ethics of art-at-work, till in the pangs of lusty wooded dreams i screamed for art-of-work, as i now await patiently for my slayers to come that i might yet be a work-of-art….
—-come swiftly my friends of welcome relief, remember how you spoiled me first with open pockets of wealth and greed, as i have played the harlot for you at your banquets of pleasure and mirth, and even now i sell my-self to stroke the ego’s of tenured galleries frequented by multiple masses….
....that was then while still in the throes of birthing pains, i brought forth many works as still born pangs of death, these ones i birthed had no soul of spirit to give release, and so the ground around was murkied with the sadness of pale horses churning up the earth in hues of red….
—-walking away i felt that it was time to give my-self a name change, since in that place of playing by the rules of other’s mind thoughts, i was the still born myself of all their intimate skull drudgeries as written in the books of old, where many came and trafficked in the selling of many pieces of so called art….
—-tis time to turn the page and write a new story i said to my-self, and if the gods have found me in the favor of a new flavor, what care i to once again turn the tables and run out the money changers of imaged gods, while in this my freeing of appointed duties i was enabled to turn the page and write of ’open slathers-of-rustic wood art’....
....’open slathers-of-’rustic wood art’, is the freeing of who i am into the ethers of beyond, where i can be the all i am, never missing a step in the spirit of a freeman who has now become an art-full ‘work-of-wood-art’....
And so I have come from out of the box, where those ones, who had tried to teach me to think as them, had so often said; “please do disturb me with your brand of flavored truth….my minds made up”....
....closed minds live in closed boxes all belonging to the masters of control….
....and when the time of my spring came, I opened the lid of my box and went on out….
....out into the ether of spring where imagination runs free and there is no-one to hold me back….
....I found the beauty of art all written in wood….
....and the poppies of my heart now reached for open heavens of grace-full ‘wood art’....
....and even now I am clothed in garments of purple reign….
-- --frank, NH, http://rusticwoodart.tumblr.com/