Doe-Eyed // Dogma

Hurtling homeward hastened by the heavy hanging of my heart. Resignation once ruled but renovation removed the residues of related history.
More and more as I mediate and the malevolent tendencies mix in with misunderstood madness, my mind gets tied up and twisted, telling tales, talking truth tinged with delicious delusion. Split decision delayed- delinquent really. Days and ideas have displaced decisive action.

Dutifully doe-eyed and descriptive, dogma, dew, and discussions of delicacies push through decay. Slideshows, and a sloth-like systemic suspicion slink under my skin. Savant-like speed read of signals and simple smiles.

Slide over and slip under with me.



1600 some odd past.
2000 plus present.
Fast forward
Settle the score.
Make me weep
Help me sleep
Cruel to be kind
Flip it back
Force rewind
Jet blue skies
Thunder rise
Lightening strikes twice
Surface temp rise to
Swim in the skies.
Muse mis-use.
Sway and swallow whole.
Fit me in force me out.
Settle on selection
So that the rest can
Forward fast and
Rewind force.

self portraits.

Ritual // Scavenge

Satie and surf. It's time to return to the water.

In my less than ritualistic life it's nice not to think about anything but the water. Yet as soothing it's surface tension seems, under its veil is just as much activity as under my own. Life, death, scavenger. Feed from the particles that surround us, bleak lights in the dark, sparks of emotion and a generic cooperative spirit. But on the surface the in and out of the waterline ever moving, changing, eroding.

Let's erode it to the bone.

And it's as though our Spring may never come, and when Summer hears of this perhaps She will shy away too? The boats are docked and wrapped, the marinas lifeless as the enveloping grey decays movement, we live suspended in our nuclear winter. 

Contrite and obnoxious Winter halts all rebirth cycles-the buds are too shy to raise their sleepy little leaflets to the sky, and the does search for life within their womb.

I search for reassurance in these symbols of isochronality and none exist - retreat to the water, where at least her voice is there lulling the rest of the world onward.


Whistle // Blow

In my cowardice, I flee. 
         I fling myself toward the answers hoping to catch up or at least catch on.

The steam rises and the whistle blows, exposing the pot I've been watching boil, but have thus far managed to keep a lid on.

I am impermanent-- a scent that evades your thoughts and sends you back to an unexpected happiness.

Sometimes the ideas are too big for me. 
         Bubbles of existence on the boiling pot, soon to burst.


Curtains // Kitchens

speaks in soulshine.


Heart // Song

I've been neglecting you, sweet vocal chords of my timid heart. Tell me a story. Lead the way.

Restore balance and bring light to this cloudy day. 
Illustrate the crepuscular resonance within my soul and set me free. 
Forgive me for quelling your sweet illumination and send me swimming in soul-shine.

I sing the simplicity of my solitude.

Lesson learned regardless of the invidiously tempting stagnation that has skulked in my shadow and had intercepted my clarity. 

I am a force, a great wind, come to sweep the spider from the web- I am no longer prey to the diseased carcass of my sophistic self.


Eminent // Domain

Marshmallows hang heavy looming over us declaring eminent domain on the newness and the sparkle of spring. It's as though winter heaves heavily, tears spilling, flooding all that is visible with her lamentable resignation. She's hanging her head and leaving behind a hollow novelty.

The ventriloquists beside me with their womanly shaped strings to pick demonstrate my own symphony to the tune of Mars Volta; My headphones allow for the world finally to be my stage. 

It's my adventure. 
It's my adversary.

If you aren't there then where do you go when my voice lifts and soars across the particle proliferated space? Is it not an arrow strait to your heart?

I, like man's best friend, wait in anticipation at the alarm of your speech.


Drop // Dig

My little raphaelite-
Gentle soft sweet ache.
Same as the voice which
designated you soul entrustee, that
voice again beckons,ordering to
Drop everything and come to thee.
Feet a flurry and heart,
in hushed whispers, sings.
Come into the garden and
dig deep down into me,
seek asymmetrical physiology.
(Its right there.)
I wander
lost in living through you,
circulated in my journey.
Look around,
see through me,
speak to be.
Paint the wind
surging through my hair.
In through me,
stir of the winter floor,
my path emerges through the
overgrown skeleton keys.
See in me
intimate imitations of
thine idolatry.
Capture the sweet secrets
mine eyes speak t'thee as
inside moments of infinity.


War // Crimes

Sept 15th, 2007, the A.N.S.W.E.R Coalition stages a march on Washington D.C. The day started out behind the White House, and many separate groups came to feed the anti-war juggernaut prepared to make the mile march to the Capitol. It was agonizing to see the men and woman who were parents of those overseas, or those who had survived, and those who had grown up in a time of war, probably parenting a soldier and surviving a husband.
I stepped into the day wearing a coat of neutrality. There were spectators from both sides of the political fight, and ironically those who had come to SUPPORT the war were vehement and angry and nasty to those who were seeking the peaceful retreat. Another eye-opener was the amount of youth that were there- many of whom were no older than 15, some 18, but none the less a shocking number of youth who are active in the politics of our day. It was reassuring. You hear so often that life is wasted on the youth, and I don’t believe this generation plans on doing any of the wasting.
There has been for some time, in my opinion, a renaissance of sorts in the art world- not necessarily in the art itself, but in the sheer amount of those who consider themselves 'artist', and seek refuge by painting or writing or photographing their own reality. I was excited to see that this renaissance also echoes the sixties in political concern as well. Passion hasn't existed in large quantities in the United States for a long time, partly due I believe to commercialism, but mostly due to complacency. I wouldn't wish the war on anyone- friend or foe- but I do believe that the ‘awakening’ that has resulted from it will benefit us all- artistically and politically- for a long time to follow.


Collaboratus- Tyler Keeler

intransitive verb
Inflected Form(s):
col·lab·o·rat·ed; col·lab·o·rat·ing
Late Latin collaboratus, past participle of collaborare to labor together, from Latin com- + laborare to labor — more at labor
1 : to work jointly with others or together especially in an intellectual endeavor
2 : to cooperate with or willingly assist an enemy of one's country and especially an occupying force
3 : to cooperate with an agency or instrumentality with which one is not immediately connected
I"ve taken a recent liking to Chuck Close's work. I'm a big fan of Philip Glass, Richard Serra, and Chuck Close, independently, and have recently seen a fabulous documentary on Philip Glass (that you can see part of here. Support your local PBS) that spanned their relationship with one another and their art's relative connectivity. They are the modern equivalent of the Picasso-Matisse square that was often influenced and in direct competition with their other companions- Degas, Rodin, and a host of contemporaries.

Whilst I certainly don't feel as though Close, Glass, and Serra were in direct competition as they are all masters in separate fields, I, luckily, also don't feel as though I'm in competition with my artist friends- though there is a sort of camaraderie and playfulness that enters any two artist's relationships with one another. It is the nature of the art to be inspired by those you admire.

So, to honor our relationship and to honor the relationship of the artists whom have shaped our world: Glass, Serra, Close, Matisse, Picasso, and many more whom have struck long term relationships (this occurs a lot in writer-land: Dickinson and Wordsworth, Whitman and Emerson.) I wanted to explore this myself.

you can see tyler's work at : TJKPhotography