Substitute Sales

'Dada Sale' - Jay Schwarts
‘Dada Sales’ – Jay Schwartz

“Substitute Sales”

I have no peace of mind.
I have no piece of mine.
I have no peace of mine.
Substitute rooms for sale …

My dreams have become bothersome,
both in fact and in fiction.
They betray me with the truth;
a false reality I denied long ago.
Substitute coffee for sale …

And what am I to think of love?
The most loving remains unloved.
The zealot slowly bleeds to death
of ruptured rapture.
Substitute hearts for sale …

There is chaos in the world.
You know it. I know it.
We like to think saner heads will prevail.
Bullshit.
Substitute moons for sale …

Everything must go.
All sales are final.

Dada Dentistry: Stereoscopic Trans-Dental Meditation

Dada Occlusion - Jay Schwartz

Stereoscopic Trans-dental meditation is  …
what happens when you drill into both sides of my mouth; life bites; art bites back.

My art becomes a temper-tantrum.
Clueless observations make for subjective guess-work.
Our ethics have been perverted by environmental occlusion.
The economics of our societies lead to psycho-dental trepidation.
Requiring an anti-inflammatory, life goes on.

But MEANwhile …
The hipster takes refuge in subliminal advertising.
The avant-garde spit new life into prunes.
Fashion-martyrs have become functionally obsolescent.
The law is lewd.
The lascivious are saints.
The humanist is old enough to care less.
The artist no longer watches TV.
The muse sleeps at the office.

A senile poodle defecates in room full of bibles.
The hierophant beats the dog with a mop.
The Antichrist is a rube.
The harmonica playing flautist is flayed alive.
Death has become a born-again chocoholic.

The truly political have been prefabricated.
The conservative eats a hidden taco and revises history for attention.
The liberal’s heart bleeds out … again.
The anarchist is a racist.

The hurried are prodded to wait.
The content are forced to want.
The cultured cultivate no pearls.
The elite munch on champagne flutes and sleep naked on canapes.
The poor digest their worries.
The immigrant is a small-world-traveler.
The toothless smiles the most.

No one knows the truly retarded
… but everyone has an opinion.

Do you know me the way I know you?
Probably not; you hardly know me.
Life goes on.

And in the END …
The loved and loving wait for the departed beloved.
Art regurgitates what nature can’t stomach.
The hierophant is dead.
God save the queen.
Everyone is an American.
Daedalus was not a dadaist, nor was he a dentist.

[Subliminal Advertising: Only Dada Venduza can bring a SMiLE.]

Seance For An E-Ghost

Ballet_de_la_nuit_1653Seance For An E-Ghost

Created in a digital moment …
Here and then gone …
Errant misgivings …
Reaching for what was …
Realizing you’re gone and have left nothing …
I wonder now what happened …
Sighing, longing for the presence perhaps taken for granted …

Time passes obviously …
An ache bellows for words not yet read …
Yearning desperately for fragments of short-term memories …
Lord, I am dazed and confused …
Oh, how I miss you …
Return.

Wherever your are … I hope you are rusting in peace …

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Good Mourning, Dada: Nurturing The Contrived Nature Of Concrete Art

'Dada Saves' by Jay SchwartzEat your chocolate
wash your brain
dada
dada
gulp some rain.
– Tristan Tzara
 
 
I’m constantly amazed at the capacity some people have to fail as human beings, or more specifically as products of nature. We have such great inherent artistic talent, and yet we are so often contrived in our behavior. Nurturing, for some, is done selectively and with ulterior motives. Efforts to save the planet come only after we’ve all but destroyed it. The art of being fully human remains lost to many who are kept afloat by a flotilla of prefabricated and standardized ‘paint by the numbers’ ideologies and conventions.
 
I write this on the heels of my mother’s recent passing, so as I let the tides of emotion wash over my head, I’m a bit vulnerable to the often groaned about process of grieving. Whatever comes comes; whatever goes goes – the good, the bad and the inane. Good mourning to all, I say, especially to me.
 
Therefore, I have resolved to refuse any attempt to self-repress my emotions or self-censor my thoughts during this period of bereavement. Mind you, this doesn’t say much, since on almost any given day this notion is ‘par for the course’ for me anyway.

The Gist and Jest of Jazz and Death

'Summertime Jazz' by Jay Schwartz“Over all, I think the main thing a musician would like to do is give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things that he knows of and senses in the universe.”
– John Coltrane
 
“I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
– Woody Allen

 

As a writer and someone who tends to ‘feel and think’ his way through life, I have certain subjects I often feel compelled to write significantly about since they intensely stir the very core of my existence. Today, I’m referring to jazz and death – the former with love, the latter with fear. Time to connect the dots.

Please note that this essay is not the big magnum opus I plan on writing one day on these topics, but merely my attempt to broach related issues of an existential nature (breathe, breathe, breathe). In fact, I’m quite aware that in all likelihood I will probably never write what I’d like to, since I’m mindful of the fact that any attempt to do so would fall short … simply because jazz and death are both larger than life. Moreover, descriptions of jazz are just as elusive as rationalizations of death. Most literature provides the gist, but misses the jest. That’s where I come in.

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Dada Bing Dada Boom: The Art Of Human Ineptness

Dada Payload by Jay Schwartz“What we call dada is foolery, foolery extracted from the emptiness in which all the higher problems are wrapped, a gladiator’s gesture, a game played with the shabby remnants… A public execution of false morality.”
– Hugo Ball
 
“Dada aimed to destroy the reasonable deceptions of man and recover the natural and unreasonable order.”
– Hans Jean Arp

 

The other day I found a large dead cockroach laying upside down in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the post office. It was a variety of which I had rarely seen in the years I’ve lived here in Salonica, but very close to the type of palmetto bugs that are the norm in Miami, where I was born. I had no idea how it had gotten there, but I nonetheless had the distinct feeling it must have fallen from the sky. It certainly hadn’t mailed itself to Greece.

The sight of it took me off guard and I pondered its possible existential meaning for a few moments before I continued down the street towards a distant bus-stop. While riding the bus, I thought about the life of a cockroach … and its end, whether by poisoning, being cannibalized by other bugs, or falling victim to a crushing flip-flop. I confess trying to find some Zen-like answer for its sudden appearance in my life at that particular moment. In truth, I never found an answer, and in fact I still have no idea why I even feel compelled to write about it in this post.

It was just one of those insignificant transient moments in life that shake you to your very core. In the words of ‘Billy’ Shakespeare, however, it was really just ‘much ado about nothing’. Yet, even today, it’s still hard to just let go of the significance of that ‘unprocessed’ moment … because it remains an insult to both my ego the super-ego. (Note: the id conscientiously objected to comment.)

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A Phoenix Imploding

Prodigy-InfernoA Phoenix Imploding

Fanning the flames of a prodigy’s inferno, self-pity looks on as art burns.

Anger consumes reason.

Bitterness ignites the mind-set.

 

Consumed with the rage over jilted aspirations …

The eye stutters …

The tongue is blind …

Speaking in volumes of disdain, spitting dissension.

 

Wracked with spasmodic thoughts on unfinished words.

Impotent intentions char on slow burn.

Wisps of smoldering passions dissolve into ‘misforgivings’.

A primal scream of guttural inflammation belches forth raw talent.

“Such a waste” cries a vanishing muse …

 

Choking on bile …

Lashing out in all directions …

Twisting, jerking, shrieking, mourning the living and grieving over stillborn dreams.

A phoenix imploding.

 

Why so much anger?

The will to cause such pain.

Too busy blaming ancestral arsonists to reach for a glass of water.

Choosing instead to smother candescence with incendiary fury.

Burn that ‘self-loathing’ down …

……………………………………………………………………

 

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