The Literary Review
Valley of the Moon
Sonoma’s mission Solano is the northernmost in California,
only one built under Mexican rule, that newly won nation
having thrown off the yoke of Spanish tyranny, inspired by
the invincible Simon Bolivar, victorious in South America,
whose stout patriot warriors brought down the king’s army.
I’m touring a popular square in Sonoma, the original plaza
set in the Valley of the Moon’s breast where it once proved
in the wake of New World peoples that had gained liberty
ground zero for a rebellion, and California’s independence.
Colonel John C. Fremont, audacious as he was impetuous,
organized a bloodless coup in Sonoma. Thirty Americans
appeared at Mexican governor Vallejo’s home, demanded
he sign a document ceding them all of California. Vallejo,
aware that his forces were so poor he could put up little if
any resistance, complied. This how California like Texas
became unilaterally independent. Fremont seized control
and a bear flag raised at the plaza, that flag later officially
adopted by the state, its star and grizzly icons of freedom.
- Thomas Piekarski
State of Art
In their song “Lather” the Jefferson Airplane tell a tale
of the laughable man-child who in his mind didn’t age.
He played with toys as if but a boy while minding his
business until they took them away. In similar fashion
art movements fade out, become eclipsed, toys taken
by others riding waves of joy, discovery, and disaster.
The artists come and go, make their marks, then exit
with the turn of a dial, clang of a bell, or drop of a hat.
The artist starts with nothing and creates alive images
that will last in our minds because though ephemeral
stand the ravages of time. The Impressionists gave us
the world as seen, Dada the idea of a world. Which is
preferable depends on one’s taste: Cezanne introduced
nicely colorized geometric formulas, then along came
Tanguy with his amorphous architecture who appeals
by means of integrating otherwise dissonant concepts.
From cave walls where sacred animals were depicted
to scenes from ancient mythology and Christian man
art has segued through the ages: nothing static in this
evolving world, not the position of stars, not glaciers.
Art is the mirror of our minds, the inner teachings we
draw from imaginations drunk with inspiration borne
on intuitive wings of enlightenment, thence conveyed
into the tactile world, put on display for all to observe.
Peer up, out into space and consider what significance
distant creatures may assign to our art. Would it seem
juvenile, irrelevant, meaningful, or ersatz hocus pocus,
play things like Lather’s sand pail and shovel? If we’ve
learned anything at all by virtue of Warhol’s soup cans
it’s that his canvases will inevitably disappear one day.
We’ll never catch time in a bottle, so unable to foresee
art’s future, yet have its present and past to illuminate.
- Thomas Piekarski
Tangerine Sun For André Breton
High upon a cloud that bobs with drones in its hair
a myopic cow visits futuristic castles and museums,
there to entertain the hysterical griffins and hydras
while I in my emerald cape slink down a manhole
into a molten-rock river, then an ocean of mercury.
Unraveling diversely, a perpetual pterodactyl prays
for the resurrection and ascension of slain gorillas.
Whoever ignores Iceland will probe a steep chasm
that’s booby-trapped, set for the ultimate sacrifice.
Admittedly the trains and planes and automobiles
you contact on the road to Calais should be ridden
with cheer, as orioles soar like Icarus, never to fail.
Anesthetized, I’m comforted by songs in my head
and find merriment therein despite all of the decay.
Riding on the back of an antelope you’d encounter
a tangible thought driven into you like a rusty nail.
Lacking any inspiration does solitude invade, like
daisies in a frozen field buried by layers of red ice.
Hail the light strung along a clothesline some poet
dragged through a Sahara of woe and beyond luck.
Maybe doesn’t compute because of acid rain stuck
between this idea and the middle tooth of a reptile.
Mandarin sunset, sliced finger and a managed soul
like yesterday’s breakfast are today almost pristine.
So now cypress trees and cisterns go wandering off,
which you take for granted but only if love is likely.
Raspberry dessert, I revel in your manifest anarchy.
Rough-hewn breath instant as unearthed arrows you
like a black dove hover over my heart, injecting me
with penicillin, and banana scent that’s oh so sweet.
A plethora of doubt intrudes, muscular and bullying
whenever I yawn, bored to tears yet worrying about
the apocalypse falling on my head as scorched ash.
Never mind says the trollop scouring craven streets
where sacrilege and alms greet pilgrims to nirvana.
It’s said in scriptures do unto others what you want.
I wrote that a few days ago while bathing beneath
a purple sky. Rapidly erased from memory parades
a quorum of senators wrapped in gold tunics, to be
saluted by the jackals devout in belief that faith aids
not reverse osmosis, nor includes concrete elements.
- Thomas Piekarski
Almanac
If only I had some antidote to this loneliness
that fly on the window wouldn’t appear gross
me so insolent amid my transpired aspirations
sanctified into a fine mist I wished once when
lost in the rapacious happenstance of relevance
you danced with an invisible universe I sliced
with my switchblade at the behest of Pharoah
whose treasures were loaded into crystal ships
arrogant my restraint that I defended yesterday
its prenuptial nature born from bloody thunder
patently distrustful since the world is involved
in uses my eyes won’t capture any time soon
so popular to the crowd that populates heaven
gladly cooing upon the interjection of comets
mine are stones regurgitated from orange soil
while walled in a globe and going backwards
rightly acquitted because the jury ate sausage
my whole self feeling uptight about crucifixes
enter stylish genies on skates mending fences
and not a chance to locate the images I wooed
they occurring albeit not quite at this moment
my reverence for the sun inherently delightful
decoupling love to bury it in a pit of resistance
unhooked this shredded cabal-driven existence
you don’t know and will never even care about
such that east by north the merging rivers flow
without a single care to detail their integration
- Thomas Piekarski