Wormhole to Hell or Wormhole to Heaven by J. Jack Bergeron

the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo. fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar.

where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music. it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar. and households filled with retired personel. the political art is no art to begin with, curtains. i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write. i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions. Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session. how did the political 'debate' ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session. In every direction lies fear or fulfillment,Įach boundary spreads wide to possibility,įrom this static domain where no breeze exists Wormhole of sleep which draws all from there to here,īloated, belligerent Babylon of black consumes the bottom corner, far removed from ants,īeckoning the dreamer homeward-or Hellward? Note the placement of pebbles-gold right, gray left-for each side of the brain, he dreams for balance,įor focus, for scale and distortion, placed with precision to escape first notice, the better to manipulate Of perfect draughtsmanship it works out to just the right number. Plain plank painted every hue of blue on the canvas numbers ten-again, depending-could be seven.Īnd the platform: four, or six? Are these tricks of the eye or the mind-or math? By the magic The horizon is one, or four, depending on how you tally. That tree is Watcher and Scribe, the Presence of the World, and at its baseĪ face is embedded, of some Bosch-spawned horror, gaze trained beyondīorders, back to the Middle Ages, or maybe on its own shadow. The only thing obviously dead, unless those buttered cliffs are someone’s skin. The only thing anchored, unless you allow the cliffs The only thing vertical, unless you stand beneath the cliffs

The artist provides no answer, perhaps presuming the question sufficient. What of the copper watch, alone in original form, though a cluster of ants spews from its center Of her golden prison melts in the sepia heat, its silver sisters hung limpįrom a branch long dead, or laid carefully Is there a reason a single housefly struggles against sky-blue stickiness-imperiled heroineĪwaiting the locomotive crush of the sweeping minute hand-or why the bottom Lips fading nearly without notice, nose pillowed on his own ear?

Why does the artist’s head melt, deconstruct, feather into foreground loam- teeth, tongue,

The same sun, not battered by these calm seas, or botheredīy melting timepieces draped about the landscape. The sliced steep slopes of those cliffs could be anywhere-say, Yosemite-buttered by “Those who do not want to imitate anything,

Wormhole to Hell or Wormhole to Heaven by J. Jack Bergeron