EVAN T. STALLONE

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Sep. 28, 2010:

NATIVES

 

As a Runner, what obstacles shall I expect; falling rocks, inverted horizons or hurdles the size of skyscrapers?  Yet, there is something that I recognize here, it is in the way the orange sunlight light stretches like daggers on the ground.  Is this not the location where I was run off the road that time before last?  Don't you remember, I rode passenger in the cotton colored car with a stern Rodin figure as the hood ornament?  Was there not a seven car pill-up on the seventh lane beyond that ninth exit ramp?  

 

Oh, what if I had the strength, could I have really saved those free-floating prayers from traveling upwards towards our foreign gods and generals?

 

No.  I never stood a chance. Nothing could have been made of me in that situation, or any situation at that matter.  That is of course, before this one. 

 

Now my devilish dreams, I charge you, please leave my sleepless mind.  Ask someone else these to answer these impossible questions at this late hour.  Stop playing these uneven events with the hope that it will stir up some false understanding of what this "awesomeness" that deems itself to be my reality. I offer you nothing.  Not even so much as the ounce of breath that it takes to mumble myself through a cheap psychological analysis of what I saw.  

 

However, I do know this much; she was here and then she left, I was militant and now I'm leveled.  So, whatever you do to me from here on out, please note that I have goals of my own and I do pray.  Even if my prying is for more harm than good, than at least count these prayers as something.  Maybe a soft spoken congratulations or a line on one of my cold cellar walls.  And yes Dear, maybe it also be true, perhaps I will not live to see my head as the sixth on Mt. Rushmore but maybe I will at least witness my life being sold out for more than the average modern slave. 

 

These are the wishes of a man that has grown up with simple fascinations similar to that a Native born into the darkness of a overly unappreciated Crystal Cave.


END


March, 13, 2010:

We See What We See



To see what I have seen;

broad faced men dancing like Mummers and retiring to Nice,

Angels and Profits acting out the deaths of Kings, without sadness or grief,

Attorneys pretending to be nameless, dress up like their father’s ghost, with the Devil’s eyes carved out of their oriental bed-sheets

and me,

a catalog of imagery, a Shrine Builder for longing and universal ancestry.

So now, will you please,

come join me,

and see what I’ve seen.


END
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March, 12, 2010:

To Write Is To Delegate



Blessed Thing, 
Please grab my wrist and take me to- 
Portugal.

We can make up nationalities 
and slur our words.
I promise you, no one will know the difference.

We'll inherit the rolls of Countrymen and Congressmen.
Not like it matters,
we can all write,

control 

and delegate.

END
-

 

March 1, 2010:

One Thousand Interventions

 

Just then, there appear to be

a slight jitter in the palm of my hand.

Then, a quick flex and an uncontrollable glance

caused a multitude of sun spots to materialize in my retinas.

 

What I saw, I swear I saw with great sustain.

 

Colors integrating with colours.

Lights flickering like dieing stars.

Commercial billboards presented like state flags.

 

Then, a siren.

An intervention.

 

It seems that a few negative actions have resulted into an explosive domestic dispute down the way.

I watched as all of the neighbors stood by their windows in disgust.

The women display their negilche while the men auctioned off their bath robes.

Such is the life of the married man.

 

In the end,

both sides lost.

 

And for choosing a side,

we too have lost.

And for embellishing the facts,

we were called liars.

And when we gave up and started to study our ancestors,

we quickly became scholars.

 

Oh, these lines.

They’re all drawn so close together.

Perhaps barricades and walls are necessary.

You might as well just section me off!

 

Try to tame me until I am broken.

Teach me to become a Tamer.

Honor me with golden crowns, prized jewels and other Medieval antiquities.

 

And then, I promise you,

I will give back what was owed. 

 

Possibly a hundred times over.

END

Dec. 2, 2009:

 

A Brief Thought On Old Age; As Brought About By My Wonderfully Beautiful Grandparents

We work and we tire.

We were once praised and now we're reprimanded.

Our slavery, or work, pays our bills and our life pays off our slavery.

Then, some time in the future, just like we were promised, we will be able to set a side some time for relaxation and testimony. This will be a time of unconscionable ease, or pleasant coasting, if you will. Oh, and our children, if we have any, will take care of us and our beautiful spouses, if we’ve cherished them enough, will sit by our sides in a rocking chair and together we will reflect upon the days that we danced freely around the kitchen floor without so much of a note or a hum. Not even in Dmaj7.

However, when my time passes I doubt that I will be in the mood to coast pleasantly, or even ease off, ever so slightly. For you see, I struggle to even recall a time, well maybe once during a beach vacation, but never again since then, have I ever attempted to so much as close a single eye lid for more than moment, let alone shut off all conscious thought or response to external life.

No it‘s a lie. To ease and to drift, however beautifully they may sound, is to loose sight of your internal inspiration. Just how can you stop searching for your personal truths? Think about all the inquiries that will go unanswered if you do not solve them.

Did you know that Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart, or Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died at the terribly young age of 35. His untimely death was due to rare kidney ailment that caused uncontrollable bleeding and other not so nice things that ultimately led him to his death later that year.  Upon his death, it was recorder that a close friend of Mozart's said, "what a horrible loss, the world will not see such a talent for the next hundred years." Sadly, even this man's assumption of a hundred years was grossly inaccurate. It has been over 300 years since his death, and to this day, there is still no sign of another Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I suppose it make sense, theoretically, there is only one you. Which means that no two people possesses the same thoughts, no one cherishes things the way you do and no one holds the same reasoning for actions taken, or not taken like you do.

So why do we work?

We work because no one else has pondered what we have. We act because we have something to prove.  Even if the discoveries we make have already been found, at least we can feel safe in knowing that ours was composed of different elements than its predecessor and it is still valid in the amalgamated worlds of thought. All is authentic here, and all is inspired equally. Creation is a humanly by-product of analytical discovery, even if that discovery is conscious or not.

No, working isn't bad. There are far worse things to plague your time with than work. It makes things go from unaffordable to affordable and predictable to unpredictable, or unpredictable to even more unpredictable, and soon our unique futures can become just what we always wanted them to be. Attainable.

END

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Oct. 18, 2009:
 
There Is But Nothing Left To Sacrifice

There is but nothing left to sacrifice.  For any sacrificial acts will just beat the already swollen parts until they become tumorous and immortal. As it seems, my body is made up of all things archaic and un-valuable, and much like an abandoned building, my arms sink into the ground in the exact location where they were once created. Oh Alter, what am I waiting for; a moment, or maybe a glimpse of some momentary peace? Lord, what childish thoughts are these.

No one worth mentioning ever did anything at such a motionless pace, much like myself. Thus, this monstrosity, or self proclaimed "historic site," must be torn down. Renovations and reconstruction will do nothing for its growth or the monopolization of previously acquired space. And yes, it is true, currently we are weak and quite mislead. However, we must learn to forget and stop being drug about by our speechless competitors. There must be an act, and it matters not if those actions are ineffective, or unauthentic. To gesture, or sitcom to involuntary transcriptions are still things to be noticed and honored. Innovation is over rated anyway, and it projects nothing but well disguised lies. So worry not, and admit that some things may not have an immediate function or genuine answer. Instead focus on your own restraint, and soon you may see that there are more options to be found within limitation than without.

END

June 10, 2009:

Progressing Towards A Refusal Of Symmetry

I am getting nervous.

There is a tide of comprehension coming through and it's pushing me further away from my stable ground.

And I heard it again, "you are achieving great things but you are far too abrasive."

This is not what I thought I was.

I thought I was bathing in sentimentality.

I dreamt myself riding on a belt-way with foreign relatives.

I thought I would collect the talents of all who surround me and put pins on map and say, "yes, we depart in the morning, we will never be the same, things are changing and your currency is vanishing."

So let's push us one step further.

Let's live like live-stock and move in herds like we did once before.

Let's never be distant or invaluable again and together we will offer long lives to the young youth

while ignoring our regional politics and The Noether Current.

END

_

 

June 6, 2009:

SELF PORTRAIT AS EDOUARD VUILLARD

Seriousness and sadness,

a feeling of no one. 

Perpetually lost in a linear version of wallpaper that is only a step away from wisdom.

 

And feeling,

as it were, or as it is,

 

is always drowning in melancholy.

 

and while all of my figures paddle for footing I continue to paint to either replace or enhance my breathing. 


END
_

June 2, 2009:

BORED IN CEREMONY


I am loitering on property that hasn't been touched in years

while sketching out clusters of comets that keep pointing me South.  

To backyard swing-sets with a sharp rusty finish and glossy textured skylines flashing through spilt fences. 

 

And please, every-body come quick, there are windows locked up with children inside,

then when we're older we can tell God that we've done something right.

And with the price of abandonment being so erratically high, what would make you think your problems would have them wave this tremendously steep fine?


Now we can no longer be excited, we are bored in ceremony and endlessly reliving time.

And if this is not convincing enough then lets all wallow back to our family trees,

lets collectively look up our signs and persuade ourselves that we couldn't have been any different and that we are doing just fine.   


END

_


May 30, 2009:

A COLLECTIVE OBSESSION FOR DISTANT MOUNTAINS

Here we are,
staring at this distant mountain,
we can feel its life pulsating through past experiences and sun light.
All of the first time visitors grab what they can while the elders know exactly what they need.

and miles away others are hiding.
We know this because you can see them come and go when the clouds pass over head.

And still, here we all are.

With our boats and pontoons,
we all do a variety of the same activities,
surrounding things are turned into games and these games become our focal point.

To me, it is amazing how we all know to come here.
A shore line that is only meters to the water.
How can we all fit?

This is when it pays to be isolated.
Among beauty a thing can only take so much attention.

So we wait our turn.

Years will go by and finally we will express our distant obsessions.
We will show it all that we have produced in its name and then we will receive all that we have expected.

But only for a brief time.

That is, until a man who is more dedicated and easier to conceive takes our place.

To possess universal beauty is to be dependent and unpredictable.

So we collect our relics,
Embrace the time that we were given
And prepare ourselves for invention once more.

End
_

May 21, 2009:


COMMON ERROR, THE UNTRAINED AND MALNOURISHED CHILDREN OF WESTERN CULTURE


Well I've got a lot of ground to cover.

My beliefs may be new but I know nothing about their origins.


And it seems to me that at a certain age all men relinquish their natural thoughts and replace them with newer, more universal and so called "profound" ones. 


Then, just for fun, we like to revert back to our middle school tactics and swiftly line up a whole new series of old problems just so we can drink our way out of remembering them all over again.  


So what does it really mean when an attorney is more of a man than yourself?  

Does this unstable ground really deserve to be blamed for its lack of support?

How much money is left in its repairs? 

How much time must we wait until a resolution is near?  


We have been waiting on ourselves for so long that we have stepped out of pace with the surrounding world.  

Now we think we are useful.  


But how useful are you if you travel without knowledge of past or future?  

Can we really recover from the time that has been wasted?  

Or are we forced to repeat the actions of others that we never heard of?  


So we start compiling all that we have, from text books to tax forms, 

there are so many opportunities for error.

  

But I do not blame you or the ground that you walk on.  

For I too should be just as aware of its fractures by now.  


No, I blame myself.  


Maturity never grew with me, 

now I am left to hunt for it like an aging and malnourished mammoth who has been thoroughly drenched by western culture.


END

_

May 18, 2009:

A FLEETING FOUNDATION

What does it mean to be ignored?
Having very few people that you know how to love,
to be ignored, even by one,
may result in a total deconstruction of ones self.

And it is not like there are many replacements
or hundreds of bodies eagerly waiting. 
No, attachments take time.
especially if they connect within a foundation.

Yes it is true, my experiences are limited
and my loves are even more infrequent.
But I have been a by-stander for all kinds of situations
and I have seen and interpreted many romances,
and to be attacked over something so small like lack of development, 
one would think that I would know how to defend myself.

But sadly, my words and graphite covered hands do not dismiss my position.

And then you stare as you give up and say, "perhaps you are right and you've always been right,"
Then I proceed to raddle off name after name of men that preform the way that I should.

I am so tired of names.
I could write a book of all the men that I do not match up to-

But what good is that.
No one would buy it, and it will not bring you back to me.
So what does one do with such time,
when creativity comes to a pause and your muscles have reached their full potential?  

When money, love and passion aren't enough, 
what is left to hold out for?
What is left to repair?   
Perhaps this arced spine 
or perhaps these sunken eyes.

END
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ALL WORKS ARE FOR SALE AND AFFORDABLE, PLEASE  CONTACT ME FOR FURTHER INFO CONCERNING MY WORK or IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A PORTRAIT PAINTING DONE OF YOURSELF OR SOMEONE THAT YOU KNOW, PLESE CONTACT ME at evanstallone@yahoo.com.