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About Digital Art / Hobbyist Brian VisaggioMale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 14 Years
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Newest Deviations

Alloy by seatbeltblue Alloy :iconseatbeltblue:seatbeltblue 0 0 Gravityman by seatbeltblue Gravityman :iconseatbeltblue:seatbeltblue 0 0 Ms. Marvel by seatbeltblue Ms. Marvel :iconseatbeltblue:seatbeltblue 0 0 Ad art by seatbeltblue Ad art :iconseatbeltblue:seatbeltblue 0 0 Supergirl Redesign by seatbeltblue Supergirl Redesign :iconseatbeltblue:seatbeltblue 7 0 Wonder Woman 1 by seatbeltblue Wonder Woman 1 :iconseatbeltblue:seatbeltblue 1 0
Literature
Shema
Rust away in your ample largesse, and see
the Spanish Mystics, the Desert Fathers,
the Prophets, the Abbas.
Those folks who slough everything to chase God
out into the desert and there,
sand-caked and worn,
limber and lithe, all tendon and muscle,
with rough and ragged beards,
kneel into the sand and pray to that God who led them there,
and still thank him for it all, and then,
in filthy, torn, brown robes (once white but now
so afflicted by sand as to lose that brilliant shine),
stumble into Jerusalem and say that
(shema, Israel!)
Yahweh is the LORD forever.
Those guys.
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Literature
Ad Martyres
The same sun that
weathers my leathered skin
and scorches my narrow eyes
and demands my sweat
and callouses my twisted feet
and harshens my back
thrusts life upon the world.
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Literature
Nighthawks
Rice-white candle-flames quiver
in pale reflection, on windowed-glass
residing, rollicking, panicking,
lost in a penny's palaver
over wax and wane and
the day's debates that
(wispy and thrown)
confuse and consume
before buckling, belting, bolting,
wicks in wax under
candle-flame collapsing,
ebbing alabaster, falling
tower-lights to the bright-burning -
cradle-kissed fluttering fire-tongues -
shot-glass shooting, throat-passing warming -
spilling spirant - and severe -
off the sill - waxfall resounding -
sparks tremble and cry -
light falls silent -
Hail the night.
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Literature
Untitled - Seethe
The water rushes over,
cooling in the hoary humidity,
the aged heat; the river soothes
and seethes the city.
The Spirit, too, works upon us,
form and thrust, ache and brightness,
staggered light and wind-beaten weight.
Sand brushes skin, silk too.
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Literature
How -- Oh God
How -- oh, God, how I can see the hand
that reaches across the pit to grasp mine,
as my feet are planted firmly in Sheol,
as the cords of death ensnare me,
how the hand of God comes nearer and nearer,
and his eyes are intense, full, and purposed --
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Literature
Over Hosanna
a flicker of bright sand-star carillon-sounding
storm-cloud ascending, half-moon falling,
the sky grows loud, and bulges, full-harrowed,
fearful, tipsy, jack-hammered, up the straight
or down the fullest road-coursed path-kneeded
trainline main, and the sun-collapsed morning
mourns birth-panged blood-sacked heII-racked
rising over other roads well-worn or goat-herds
or bucket-wells or dust-carved wall-notches,
throaty wheel-creaks or wheat-cracks,
over ready-Jerusalem, over sweat-palms
in the urgent-cut aged hands, nose-wrinkled faces,
last-desperate creases, cornered embraces.
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Literature
Yalta - Oh, Night-Divine
I believe in all the
great and holy things --
the weary world,
the heady hope -- rejoice!
The windswept star-felt endless plains,
etched between the seas, Europe's own
vast Intermarum. Like holy night,
like the Spirit himself,
the still-glowing ashes,
the wicked-ruins pepper her back,
and though we mourn, though we mourn,
still Poland dances along the border.
The night! Oh, night-divine!
Feast the moment, this single
night, this liberation, this church itself --
Poland!
Her great-holy things still cast their breath,
still wind through her streets, still
still preach, still proclaim --
our God does not forget, our God does not --
-- but casts us like the Man himself,
outstretched and rough-hewn-splintered.
Oh, do we redeem the world?
How heII-hocked and empty-handed,
no such victor, no such priest --
more the victim, more the fleeced, more
crossed upon the conquered-map.
Was Krakow broken and handed out?
Did the soldier's throw for Warszawa?
And now sweat-beads and night-fires our only
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Literature
Untitled - So Little Greek
What should I write of my arcane private rituals?
Of water and of oil and of prayers
uttered silently and privately?
How should I speak of them,
without ripping their potency out
from their chests like hearts
dripping fire?
I can say nothing of them, no, not a word.
To tell much is to say little things
that can never wrap themselves
around the aroma of olives,
sweet on my forehead.
You were there, too, though you didn't see,
because the lights were dim -- no -- off,
save a rice-white flicker-flame and a little
dip of a window. I was quiet, or I yelled
a little too softly-so. It was cold,
but I was wrapped in red stripes,
and my head was covered
before God.
Did I make promises? Yes. But wait.
That's not fair. I've made so many,
spilled them off my tongue wet and spirant
and deathly, full and richly, but
never quite matched. My mouth, then,
is no mean instrument, no measure,
no scale. Could it weigh
all it says to him?
No, I'm stuck in my own head.
But drums drum, and I chant a little ch
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Literature
In Answer to Galway Kinnell
Your title makes me think of slasher flicks,
of empty footsteps so ponderous with intent,
and of the unsuspecting lovers,
children, really,
who do not know, and cannot know --
that all they've ever been
is a plot device
to demonstrate the danger of the situation.
I dedicate this to everyone who's ever been
nothing more
than a means to an end.
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Literature
In Empty Quarter
1917
In empty quarters' awful glow,
where fields, though fallow, fold and flow;
in empty streets blow empty horns,
and wait a beauty to be born
and singing-sounds to grow.
The women pass, and even though
the men, while lovers, cannot know
they fight for heII, and heaven's scorn
and scarves so rich -- and jackets torn,
the battered bastards storm the foe.
In Nantes we stayed mere days ago,
our hands together more to show
our heads had never been so shorn,
nor men by women been so mourned
where waits a beauty still to go.
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Brian Visaggio
Artist | Hobbyist | Digital Art
United States
I spent most of my life wanting to be an artist, but fell away during high school. Now, after more than a decade away, I'm rediscovering how to draw in my late twenties.

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