Dreamers

By an artist named Kennett Mohrman

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See the rest of the gallery here: http://www.photographyserved.com/Gallery/Dreamers/518544

guttersnipe

Colored shoes and denim masked the street
so you had to trust it was underneath.
An aging sun pulled shadows from backs,
the chill stepped outside, tying his shoes for work,
and we dragged our second selves
over asphalt like fashion was a past.

A beggar with pins in his hat waves a dirty hand.
His eyes are red in his smile
as if they were two fields
in a forty year war that nobody won.
I photographed him throwing finger signs
in front of the grateful dead.
We were rock stars! gods of the land!
You herda the Boston Tea Party? That was us!
we were there.
we’ll do it all again, brother.

They hug for no reason, crusty fingernails
buried in stiff cotton.
Stained with beer, oil, mud, oblivion…
stained with the sweat of five thousand evil dreams
and the sweat of a million days
after warm dreams of youth.
They wrap all this in their unwashed arms
as people try to make them disappear
on their way to ringing registers.
Beetles twisting on their backs
or flying in a boarded room.

I am watching him walk into the sun-
a rolling stone. Hoping it comes to life,
begins to walk, and becomes a man.
But he turns into the bar.
the smallest blades of grass and flatness
stop it at the bottom of the hill
a mute rock at sunset…
drunk, and slung on streets like an ornament.

And I ask my God every night since
can these bones live?
Will you breathe into the dead again?
and i pray for the bones and the rocks
and the blowing leaves
like a boy in an attic under full moon light
and, with dust covered floorboards, ache
for awakening.

hipstamatic mainstream eye radio

“…Lots of photograhy that is part of the “hip” “art world” has come to have a very formulaic aesthetic. a lot of it portrays young, hip individuals who either live on the edge or are trying to look “natural” in front of a magical looking landscape. lots of portraits. lots of odd lighting. lots of “abstact”. lots of “wow, this is so simple, it’s either really good or horrible”. lots of irony. lots of flash, parties, white girls with long hair with their backs to the camera. nakedness. social circles. everyone who has a camera seems ” be a photographer”.

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however, if one happens to subconciously follow these photographic aestheics, their authenticity should not necissarily be seen as inferior. you see, it’s hard to tell what “good art” is. as an artist, i think good art should be based on the honesty and purity of the artistic process. so, if someone is intentially taking a certain type of picture because they know that it will be “accepted” by the artistic community, then it is not good art. bu if it comes from a true need to create or to capture a moment of beauty, then it is fine.

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unfortunately, flickr does not come with a lie detector app. then again, this is all just a product of the age we live in: technology, quick communication, accessability. the vast amount of photographers is due to our collective obession with documenting things….and it’s so easy to do these days. who knows, if there was some piece of technology that could automatically make gorgeous paintings, then i’m sure everyone would be a painter too.”

-A user called ‘polly’ on the internet, in a response post.

backonrepeat

In the kingdom of sleep, I am a novelist.
Under which rock do I find the muse
The muse is the rock. The rocks, stacked and spaced
Like an acrobat photograph.
Also the muse, is the grass they borrow
The crust of a foot stamped by the running woman
Her fingers and the shapes they make
The eye patch on the face of a window mannequin
How the boy eats the jam from his fingers
Straight from the glass and paperless jar.
The muse is the third chapter of James
walking as a man with blurry features.
Mercy triumphs over judgment.
Against my dreaming flesh I feel
quick imagined glances
from a faceless girl.
I would like to write a beautiful story with you, I say
with only my eyes, in only a second.
But she cannot hear a word. She turns to the right
Her hair leaves a streak of blue ink in the open air.
And I wake up, having forgot
the names of all my closest friends.

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rockwell and gates of pearl

where is madness when its needed most?
when madness alone can fight madness,
the madness of man: the spirit sanity,
and you try making fear
the only grim dread on earth.
Checking under bedsheets for hesitant feet.
The shadows on my skin ache for the motherlight.
ivory clear with flesh of summer fruit
womb smooth and warm like candlewax
lit within daddy’s sea cottage
a nightsquall rolling through the shore, the boards rattling…/
In the dark, look under the bed for a shaking heart.
You shake fists at trembling hands. The fever of the watcher,
the burning chills of the meditator.
All your smile routines, such a bruised pear, and my hands are rough
but there has always been enough room.

There has always been a place here
just for you
where waits your true name.
Even for the mindless stones
the kingdom of heaven is at hand.
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d tocks

Parking lots are all built empty
leaving nothing to hit on the way back to your car.
nothing to blame with your body,
moonticking the good kids.
I will blame it on the moon in the last strides of night
We didn’t do anything down here, but you couldn’t leave us alone.
We didn’t do a thing.
It’s almost morning and you’ll be gone
you little white piece of shit.
In some after hour, I will remember what was made by God
and how the moon is a beautiful woman
who, even up there with the silver rocks and stars,
had issues of her own
when Juliet grew up.
I know the road back to my bed
But how do I get home?
Rob the barista’s oil stains dried
it’s probably been years since closing time.
Numbers lie to me. Chemicals gossip in my unusual blood.
I am the floating specks in ur eyes
u only notice me when u look at the blue sky.
promise me
Promise me,
You’ll get me home soon.