THE ORGONE WURLITZER by Marshall James Kavanaugh
Here’s an erotic ode to Damien Hirst. It comes straight out of the psychedelia-infused romp, Fire. Sun. Salutation. This live reading is from the book release party at The Random Tea Room in Philadelphia last April.
Like this one? You can grab a copy of the book here: http://bit.ly/FireSunSalutation
ah…that glorious divine feminine.
“She is the
. . . . . MOON,
. . . and the EARTH
on which I call home.
My grounding below pushing me forward
and the glorious
. . . . . . . . DAY and NIGHT.”
. . .
FIre. Sun. Salutation. is available for sale at The Random Tea Room & Curiosity Shop located at 713 N. 4th Street, Philadelphia PA. Grab a copy today! Not in Philly? You can order a copy from Amazon: tinyurl.com/FireSunSalutation
My art is my writing and my writing is my art.
The following are photos from the dream exhibition I manifested over the last month, Plato’s Porno Cave
Plato’s Porno Cave: The Trial, a collaboration with Augustus Depenbrock. June 13-July 16, 2014 at Little Berlin, Philadelphia PA. http://littleberlin.org
TV Dinner, an installation by Marshall James Kavanaugh for Plato’s Porno Cave
TV Dinner, a performance with CB Blu, Eli Snyder-Vidmar, Ma Ja Ka, Amanda V. Wagner, Luke Leyden, and Ssengam Niloc.
, a performance by Marshall James Kavanaugh and Augustus Depenbrock
Trailer of Plato’s Porno Cave: The Trial
, video shot and edited by Ross Brubeck.
Thunder showers pass over the city
Washing away all of this heat wave
Along with the aggression
We are going to live through this summer
And this rainwater is going to nurture us like no other.
A poet’s job is to breech people’s short attention spans with a timelessness that exposes them to another layer of reality. This new layer could involve mythology. Or it could be all astrology. Mescaline or some other pseudoscience. Acid and dream theory. Meditation or just plain simple unrelenting intimacy.
The point though is that we are in fact a very closed sort of people. Poetry is the life force to open us up. The same could be said about all forms of art, though with poetry this process just happens to be the most literal.
The best poetry is that which connects the greatest amount of people to this other side. To do so, it needs to be simple. It needs to be in the same language as that which is popular at the time. It needs to do all of this and somehow still manage to stand the test of time. So that it stays current for many more generations to come.
This is what makes good poetry hard. It’s also what makes it so easy.
None of this clouded meaning, inside joke, tongue in cheek, meta drivel.
We need something that is real. Something honest. That’s got feeling.
The word on the street.
Leave no reader behind.
In Cambridge there is a house built on poetry.
Its walls comprise verse questioning reality and encouraging a move away from the norm.
Its roof beams hold the deep thoughts of a zen yogi.
Its floor bears the weight of the rain in the spring or the dew at dawn on mountaintops.
Step on it’s stoop and you stand tall on the absolute truths of creation
Smile and be productive.
Follow your heart and dream.
Its builder was a mighty dream laborer
Who years ago took his pen off the page and onto the wooden fence.
And from there gathered more energy
Spiraling out wider in his artistic sweep
Until the whole property was turned over in an expansive leap.
and the whole neighborhood enveloped in the psychedelic color of this grand cottage
this grand poet’s house
grand venture in an otherwise tight-knit portion of town
Where the benches don’t even allow bums to get some sleep
And traffic is mainly tourists from other countries seeking the lore of Harvard.
“At first I thought I was traveling through space and time. Then I realized space and time were all cyclical and I was only a small point in this grand departure.”
Photo of Feeling the Fall, an art installation at Plato’s Porno Cave: The Trial designed by Marshall James Kavanaugh and Augustus Depenbrock. Taken by Willow Zef.
from the forthcoming Dream Dialectic, The Little Death
The water beckons a challenge to live one’s life. Its cold runs to new depth creating icy patches upon my toes as they dip further into the darkness gesturing towards a sandy bottom covered in the black of night. Thoreau still occupies this space. His poetry flows with the ripples of wind on water. Waves eternal. Words everywhere and everything. Rise up young youth. Your summer swim spot is a place for transcendence. Bathe here and feel your soul purified.
I dream I am alone as I swim across from shore to shore. Each stroke pushing me further out into the open and farther from my friends talking deeply barely noticing my absence. Fear creeps up my neck into my conscious mind as I realize how far I have gone and how far I still have yet to go. Treading water I take a long look around me. Lifeguards watching children splash starbursts into the sky. Families camping underneath the friendly shade of pines. Lovers groping bodies enchanted by the reflection of their kiss in the cool pool. Summer wanderers. Avid vacationers. Dream makers.
My body drags underneath a passing wave. Around me the sun spirals into bands of light broken by the dark sheen of the lake top over my head. Submerged breath is cut short and the mind grows cold. Panic fear absolved. The birds no longer chirp where the body lays. Silence falls except for the beating of my own heart at the back of my eardrum. And the mind turns over a new chord. A oneness with both body and soul. The water speaks to me:
Drink deep from the river of your own being and rise up anew. Become the person you tempted yourself to be. All the strength in the world is yours. It only needs a controlled breath and from there the vision becomes clearer.
I resurface and notice not one but two swimmers gradually make their way past me. Their intersection and crossover like two planes in the sky. Trails of motion laying out across the lake as they drift forward in time.
And all around them even greater swimmers taking a stroll through the lake deep. Merry pranksters on afternoon jaunts cooling off from the summer sun. Paths each unique in rhythm. Beaten roads as flexible as the liquid that they were born in. A great network of wonderers lucidly living lakeside.
I take a breath sucking in the warm sun’s heat. The fear of drowning subsiding. The body making the right motion of fingertips cupped into paddles pushing water across the side and out underneath the feet kicking brilliantly like something alive all inside. The mind masters the body and the body masters the earth.
On the opposing shore there is a moment of triumph. Thoreau stands there admiring another walker of the way. His statuette hand outstretched in an expression of open embrace. He takes note of all the fellow lovers of nature who take day trips to his homeland. Natives of Concord and Boston artists and writers lifers and dreamers all drinking deep and breathing big. His smile is in the peace of the land. No one tripping over his grave anytime soon. As his body is now a vast valley of life.