The End of History

The End of History

Let us remove all history.
Let us erase all tradition.
Let us purge ourselves of every story
until we arrive at this moment…
Adrift, but free of ancient ties.

Let us round all edges.
Let us soften the contrast between us.
Let us muddle all hues.
Let us blend in, fit in and slide in.
Let’s let everything go until
each and everything about us is
going, going…gone.

Nameless Historically Ambiguous Art

Historically Ambiguous Art

 

Let us forget the names of every bridge.
Let us forget the names of every street.
Let us forget the names of every building.
Let us forget the names of every river, stream and creek.
Let’s not rename but un-name everything.

Let us void anything referencing any moment
from any past anywhere at any time.
Then we’ll meld together and hum.

Let us make music into a single note…
A buzzing droning sound without words.
It’s what we’ll hear in our heads
after we’ve freed ourselves from history.

Let’s unburden ourselves of words by severing their roots.
Let’s excuse ourselves from all languages.
Let’s build another tower of babble and hum.
But then, what is that?

Aldkfji ierjddl adlfkd oeirue
oeiruei sldkfjv aodif, alsdkf.
Eoridk lsdfkjdk aldkfdk irkrp,
oeik oaidfd ldkfdjdk.

111000111000111000
00011100110011001100
110011001100110011001100
000011110000111100011100

Gregory Zeorlin 5/11/2017 @ 7:33am

Knowing, Watching, Waiting

Grace Cathedral Labyrinth, San Francisco, CA.

Knowing, Waiting, Watching

Oh you know I want to believe
in something more
than me or you.
I want to believe in something,
more than us.

But this thing called religion.
Well I’m not sure I trust
all it’s made up to be.

I’ve said it once
and I’ll say it once more…
Not sure God entered through
any church door.

But don’t slam that door on me.
I’ve been wrong so many times before.
Or maybe the door is open wide,
so vast it’s unseen.
As if we’ve walked in and out,
and out and in not even knowing it.
And God’s unknown too…

Or maybe the door only exits
as an opening to the outside world,
where God’s knowing, watching and waiting.

Gregory Zeorlin 10/14/2016 @ 10:43am.
Inside Grace Cathedral, San Francisco, CA

 

Art Isn’t a Shelter

Art, regardless of its form, is dead. Art has always been dead. The romanticized view of art includes giving art a soul, a spirit or even an unexplained energy.  But art is dead, has no pulse and is cold. Art is a concept, a thing, a string of words, musical notes, an inanimate object, a product sold in the art market, a commodity.  I’ve kept a studio practice for over 30 years and this idea of lifeless art is fairly new for me and a little unsettling if I only stay on the surface.

Clouds For Lease.

Clouds For Lease.

But if I dig below the surface this lifeless thing called ART does enhance life.  It can introduce us to a range of thoughts and emotions. However we should not tag the actual emotions or feelings to art. Tag them to ourselves.  This is what art does…It’s a door that we choose to open to get access to our emotions, feelings and ways of seeing.  Passage through this door is often a luxury. We wouldn’t pass though the art door if we were seeking food or shelter. Art does not feed us. Art is not food. Art is not a shelter.

Finally, I note the coldness of art…the lack of a pulse. Art is not alive. Even dancing human bodies are only a series of motions that end.  Those artists who sacrifice all for their art…forgoing marriages, children and strong commitments to other people end up alone. They become just another notation in an art history book or the maker of some thing in a private or public collection. They create a void in their lives that art cannot fill.

I am an artist. I make things and write poetry (www.ZeorlinArt.com) but none of it has a soul. I am also a husband and father…and it is this part of my life that fills my heart and soul.

My Olympian Throne

My Olympian Throne

The day is young the goals are high!
My television set is glowing.
The Summer Olympics are on again,
“Go America!” my patriotism is showing.

I’m in my chair and set to go!
I’ll cheer my team while knowing,
the refrigerator’s full of cold cuts
and America’s beer will be flowing.

It’s the Olympics say! I know what I know!
I’ll coach my team to gold!
I’ve learned a lot by sitting in this chair
that sports a bit of mold.

When the race is tough and I’ve had enough
to the refrigerator I’ll retreat.
I need to eat a little more energy
to fight away defeat.

Beer and meat are the training tools,
as we Olympian champions know.
Eat quickly and don’t drink too slowly
when going for Olympic gold!

Gregory Zeorlin 8/12/2016

Beyond the Comfort Zone

 

Beyond the Comfort Zone

 

Try to avoid going beyond the comfort zone.
Don’t ever trip or take a tumble.
Do what we know over and over again,
for a while we’ll even avoid some troubles.

 

Shun all those questions we cannot answer.
Let’s just know what’s already well-known.
Limit our quest and be the very best,
at spinning on our own point of center.

 

Don’t enter a room full of strangers
lest we lose our sense of importance and control.
The world is big, even bigger than us,
such realization is a blow to our fragile egos.

 

We’re creatures of habit, me and you,
we avoid what seems foreign or nearly new.
But I’m going to trip and tumble, just you watch.
Or join me just beyond the lines of the comfort zone.

 

Do you want to try something new?
Step out of a rut we’ve made so long and way too deep?
Over and over we form neat lines and rows
before going complacently to prepaid graves with tombstones.

 

Let’s be brave for once or even twice.
Why not be set free while we’re still living?
Sing a song, do a dance, write a poem, take a chance
of stepping beyond what’s already known.

 

Life’s troubles will eventually find us, ready or not.
And deepest dreams will fail to appease us.
We’ll toss and we’ll turn or try to run away,
from many things we’ve trapped too long inside us.

 

What does it take to jump beyond the comfort zone?
Tomorrow’s too far away and yesterday’s long gone.
If you wait till things seem perfect you’ll miss another chance
and get buried head to toe, in the comfort zone.

 

Gregory Zeorlin 8/8/2016 @ 11am
The adult world is a place of people set in our ways who become skeptics and cynics. We avoid change out of the fear making mistakes and not looking perfect. We focus on our public image at the cost of neglecting our human spirit. We miss out on doing things that could enrich our lives even if we must trip sometimes to do them.

This Place

Words are words and poems are poems regardless if they’re written by a known poet or someone unknown who uses words to record ideas. After all, we choose words and arranged them to serve our needs.  Is this a disclaimer before posting a poem? No. Just an acknowledgment to those out there who have a similar thought about writing.  Of course, most of those “out there” are imaginary since so few will ever read this post. Hello, out there. 🙂  Share this poem if you wish. Thank you.

 

This Place

The world is a wondrous place,
a ponderous place too.
We humans push and pull in races
to gain, dominate and subdue.

The world could be a perfect place,
but only if there was no humans race.
We’re here today and gone tomorrow
regardless if we pray, beg, steal or borrow.

So we’ve made the world imperfect,
imposed our will against nature’s design.
Call this human nature,
we’re animals of chaos, order, logic and magic.

The world is not a perfect place or tragic,
it is the only place we can be.
We could race away in a space rocket
but we’d return, eventually.

We’ve yet to find a way
to permanently break away
from this place we’ve damaged
intentionally and so haphazardly.

In pursuit of more, forever more
we have made the world a lesser place.
But it’s not too late to stop blaming others
for the holes in our bodies and minds.

We’re animals in cages.
We’re animals in pens.
We’ve worn a path along the fence that keeps us in.
We’re sickened and enraged by eating the news.

We don’t know if we should scream or howl.
Some scratch and bite anyone in reach.
We’re bruised even when no blue shows on our skin,
the swelling still harms every soul.

No one knows the answer.
There is no one answer,
only multiple ways of seeking to comprehend
the ways of being human from birth until our end.

The world is a wondrous place,
a ponderous place too.
The earth could’ve been a perfect place,
(but such a lonely place) without we animals
of chaos, order, logic and magic!

 
Gregory Zeorlin 7/18/2016 @ 9:14am

Imaginary Readers

If it was not for you, my imaginary readers, then I would be writing for invisible ones. And invisible readers are even harder to reach than imaginary ones. Or, at least that’s what my imaginary friends tell me…

Photograph. Gregory Zeorlin

Photograph. Gregory Zeorlin

The beauty of a public disclosure of a journal writing effort is the fact I would write my thoughts regardless if anyone reads them. So, why post this ramble to the public? Because there are many real people out there who have similar thoughts.  We all have the same bones, as the photograph with the post implies (for those who don’t mind thinking a little abstractly). So the same things which motivate one person to write a poem also prompts another to seek out a poem to read.

So, now and then, a real person reads what I write. I hope those encounters with my words affirm, entertain, challenge or confound such people from time to time.

Be well. Good day…whether you are somewhere in the real or imaginary worlds.  🙂