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MACLEAR Art & Poetry
Check this link now and then for more art work, poetry, essays, etc.
Science is the tool in which philosophical matter makes contact with 'a consciousness' and presents the application of a new existential fiber beyond the domain of a defined human existence.
The ultimate destiny of our existence is 'the meaning of life.' Science can only discover, categorize and define a specific matter and suggest how it exists within our lives.
Spiritual diligence maintains the awareness between one's thoughts in which the substance of life's sciences borrows from.
Tom MacLear
Copyright © Meg Publishing |
Half Full
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Pick Up The Pieces |
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Learning the mechanics of art makes one a craftsman of art. Living and dying through art makes you the artist.
Tom MacLear
Copyright © Meg Publishing |
The Word
I am the word
wisdom,
I know no thought
Only truth
All that is in my mind
Is the reason of a moment's conception
In life,
There lies an effort
The sound of effort
Rewards the vacant moments
Within our transient thougts
The magnetic,
Envelops a vacuum
The molecular implodes
Yet sustains a re-creation
within nd without each cell
of each being
Electrolytes constitute the human without conscience
It is the soul, wich permeates
Each cell of our being which makes us
The human we are
And the human we exist as
And there,
A light stands inside
The thought of consciousness
Good thoughts within, peace within, kindness in motion throughout oneself creates a peace within and sometimes throughout our environment. Yet what is spoken and what is lived in our every day existence is what has brought us here_
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What we say
What we do
How we work
How we choose
How we win
How we lose
What and how we say things to others
all determine the effectiveness of this chain of thought and spirit of healing.
Therefore:
In this writer's opinion, there is so much more to a human's obligation in this life than good thoughts and peace within. I am sure this 'wise one' would appreciate this point made. I believe many attempts to practice this within. But have a difficult time with its continuance in their every day interaction with others.
Life complements being_
Being assures motion_
Motion engages perpetuity of theory_
Theory resolves conflict_
which explicates the effort of being
Thus expanding space and time
within ones consciousness and inner being
A proficiency of space within time
maintains an efficiency of existance_
Efficiency of time throughout space
validates all thoughts of being_
Tom MacLear
Copyright © Meg Publishing
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Junk Mail
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Eye Of The Beholder
Tom MacLear '84
#10
Into the light and over the Omni,
Hidden under flowers
Painted on blue school-girl sweaters
A tiger sits sipping his tea
Writing directions
In a book of slow prose
While exchanging letters
From a man he calls Errappee
When asked what travels
will take him to next
He nods upwards to the clouds in transit
and exclaims
"I have an appointment with an angel
I just met
I do hope professor
won't forget the cakes"
from the screenplay "Bleecker Street"
by Tom MacLear © copyright '98
registered WGA '99
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THE VILLAGE
Eulogy lost to the
Flatbush Pharaoh
The baby blue minx
Screams the be-bop brio
TinPan, slow SoHo
Cerebral symptoms
Elevate aesthetic numbers
As words fill vulgar verbal fancy
As Fulton's fish fades
Past the fifties, sixties
Seventies Madison
Colors fade to words
Between pens and ballpoint brains
Removed in Greenwich
Dutch and Leo's, Vanguard shadows
Figaro's, Remo's and Cedar nights
Bitch fights, Skin riots
Pig guns used for fun
Bowery bums, beat brothers
Dance Termini's song
The square, thick air
The mescaline's 'on'
Mercer, Union, Bleecker, Greene
The Lane, The Hudson
Flow the veins of art and foolery
Formed, fixed, flagellated pieces,
Crucial mending for the micropolis...
...Harlem's Rome. Harlem's Rome
An artists envy
Ozone's second home
And Slate's inspire
Bleecker Street
the home that sends me
from the screenplay "Bleecker Street"
by Tom MacLear © copyright '98
registered WGA '99
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STEINBECKS PORCH
Steinbecks porch
Painted awning-gray
withered rattan
salt-air sanded
Faded mobiles still
In the blue breeze along the row
Cement over rusted frames
Like measured discord
Frozen in their departure
The heavy pen draws deep
Deep beneath they're neoteric barks
He laughs,
"They never learned how to listen
When they read their books"
written by Tom MacLear
from 'Words Seven'
Copyright © '98 Meg Publishing
Divulgence
by Tom MacLear '96
THE ROAD
Red upon pavement
Eyes painted prey
To the flood-lights beyond the stage
The noise has stopped
The heart beats slower
It's purpose now incidental
Three a.m. showers
Five a.m. tea
Sleep on the road
Then you're in Buffalo
written by Tom MacLear
from 'Words Seven'
Copyright © '98 Meg Publishing
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ALL GOD'S CREATURES
Terrapin tangled
Winking on the laundry-line
A secret he says he's come to speak
May I address your disposition?
Or might your patience fall short
you think?
Why speak with such arrogance
We still have so much to learn
for there has been so much
we have forgotten
since the beginning
Wink,
Wink at the slow one
who passes you
His face shows no lies
And you have nothing better to say
Let's not toil with shortcomings
are we not all God's creatures?
Blended colours
Meshed upon signs shouting
Held in hands floating
Across people's faces following
one before the other
The Terrapin traverses the line
above their heads oblivious
One flag, two flags, three flags, four
So many fly for too many premonitions
Wink,
The more politics
The further from their purpose they stand
Wink,
Wink
written by Tom MacLear
from 'Words Seven'
©Copyright '98, Meg Publishing
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Sand-barge basting
beyond the jetty
The sun screams
And the yellows melt to white
A full moon operates
it's obsession
Somewhere else across the water
And I am but a vessel
Between the dark and light
Waves in random rhythm
Announce the ocean upon the bow
Like words surfacing
From spirits of the deep
Kelp tangled turning red
to blue to green
Foam fading between the ship
And bubbles of salt sand and sea
Surround me
A violent yaw erupts
As the undertow climbs the hull
Pulling my vessel to the debts below
Then, in the horror of my end
A voice whispers
Turn against the compass
employ your senses to guide you
The soul holds its course
Fate holds its reason
Now you are truly alive
written by Tom MacLear
from 'Words Seven'
Copyright © Meg Publishing '98
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 | AN L.A. LULLABYE
Its hip to hate
Okay to fly
Suck from the game
And stare at the sky
Boast about the answers
But never offer time
It's oh so boring
When it's oh so pretty
here, in the 'big nowhere'
Laugh 'cause you're ignorant
And scream at their dreams
Then test the water
When ya cut and dip
To see if it still stings
Rules have no listing
Here in the 'big-nowhere'
Lay down and die,
Lay down and die
What have they changed?
If they're still
Beggars for the meat?
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Arrogance is assuredness
Selfishness is commitment
Vanity is reward
Pain is just an excuse
And friends are for
the convenience
here, in the 'big nowhere'
Tiny Flip's loose
And Cutters gone to play
Maggie's dry, the spirits fly
And the Watchman's come to stay
It's all so simple
When you haven't got a name
Lay down and die,
Lay down and die,
here, in the 'big-nowhere'
written by Tom MacLear
from 'Words Seven'
Copyright © Meg Publishing '98
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ANDY'S DAY
His soiled hands clench the polished glass filed with spirits, loaned by the bar-tab his sweat has yet to pay. Squint. The eyes loom as the pubs mirror peers back to him
He sees another ghost behind a memory that knows no end, as the shallow sounds of footsteps slip behind a shadowed barstool, which he alone has owned for so many years. This, in his world, is the domicile life has given him. For no heart chose him and no heart knows how to swim alone.
Mother broke, Father left, as he, this useless one, melts beneath a street of slippery iron and concrete. What did they say to him in that summer? What fell inside? Was this all it was ever going to be?
Timid. Flushed faced, shattered, embalmed in misery, the dead-shyness lingers and a broken envy waits elsewhere as the Ladies find disgust in him. Yet neither would ever know the other?
Confused companionship tastes the liquor's lie. His aimless presence repulses them, yet they cannot take their eyes off his yellow skin, illuminated by the shiny varnished playground beneath his toxic face.
By the third pour the others don't even know he's there... Bartender pours him another. "Come-on. I mean, look at him. Look at him! I know he's got no money. Figure he needs someone, or something, ya know."
By the downtown tracks, past the foggy docks of Glasgow Harbour, St Francis Mission holds his bed most weeks. Hoping he'll decide a bed would be softer than most nights.
In the mess, he holds his spoon with a warrior's grip upon a sword in battle. Thrusting his stew into his mouth, each motion a stab, rattling against his few remaining teeth. Swallowing hard searing gulps without a chew, punishing his mouth and throat with food that came from ones that forgot him so long ago.
Downstairs, by the cots, he shaves in the reflection of a broken television. He combs his 47 year old Brylcreemed hair the same way he did in that thirteenth summer and that picture is still bent behind the parole card stuffed in his cracked vinyl wallet, reminding him of that time he was in love.
A page is torn again from the phone book outside to fill the holes in the old boots and the madness never has its say in the conversation.
"It's what's on the inside that makes ya happy, ya know."
The mid-day walks take care of the shakes. He bags a bottle, can or two. It all helps the stiffness go away and earns him some kind of pay.
Tomorrow his foot will fall asleep for the last time. And he'll piss down his leg again, still not knowing why. His cough will return, and his stomach will begin to burn. Father Mac' will move him across the hall with the others we don't see much anymore.
Soon the leaves will begin to fall, the last chill will come and it will be done. The darkness always comes whether God is there or not. For Andy, it's just another day of waiting. Waiting for all this to finish itself.
"Father Mac' told me it's one of them mortal sins ta' kill yerself. And I'm a good Christian I am. Father Mac' says, God has his time and place for every man, ya know."
Low, dark and dank inset within Mother's earth, an airtight box holds a message never answered, as Andy rests eternal and the world knows no difference.
Why was Andy? The purpose, the beginning, middle and end. For a star no greater but no less than we has passed and is now long out of sight.
Surely his end is our loss. Time and again we never learn from people like Andy. Nor does Father Mac' and his benign, archaic and anachronistic truths of God.
We create Andy as sure as we created the class system today, the same as we did four hundred years ago. We create politics as an excuse to avoid a Unified theory of existence...
...The penal code, dog-tags, bus schedules, the proper roux, doctor's parking spaces, Illiterate Evangelism, rampant dysfunctional psychoanalysis, systematic ethnic cleansing, sweatshops, The G8, Mohawks on Anglos, mini-skirts on little girls, plutonium tipped anti-tank missiles, eternal famine in most Afro countries and we still recognize only one Holocaust.
We just don't have time for Andy. Or we just don't care what killed Andy before his death.
Then, somewhere out there, another child will hear those words in his thirteenth year and nothing will ever be the way it was the day before. Then soon the soiled hands will clench the glass of spirits once more.
Written by Tom MacLear, Copyright © Meg Publishing '99 |
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