<![CDATA[Flathead Lake Photography - WRITING]]>

<![CDATA[Flathead Lake Photography - WRITING]]>Sun, 08 Feb 2026 16:44:56 -0700Weebly<![CDATA["Last Trip To Costco"]]>Mon, 11 Dec 2017 09:11:58 GMThttps://www.flatheadlakephoto.com/writing/december-11th-2017Pieces of paper
scattered and gather'd
written on recycled sheets & rolled up retail reciepts
pen pressed against jargon
and laser laid fine print return policies
tell the story of our falls feats and fallacies

grinning
glasses wearing
plaid-shirt-sporting
strange strangers
walk by
as the story is scrawled
in a rough hand
by a man--
very alive
and ever present
hearing
words
whispered on the wind
musical whispers
words that once written
one can never
rescind

He sees eighty-year-old hobblers
racing
for cases of pre-fab fodder
to be sold at wholesale prices
but never consumed
it's interesting considering
this beast of consumption
continues to balloon
he sees someones' last trip
to the grocery store

they didn't know...
still adding up items in their head bewildered wondering
"should I have bought one more case of those..." "one more"

The Great Northern Railroad
and the cars
and sky-busses
of tomorrow
will carry the children
and cousins
and brother
of that ignorant soul
looking so weary
so old
to the place chosen for such things
and they'll bring their nice clothes and their kids
to the hole in the ground with no lid

and someone

someone... will be born
(from the ashes of their sadness)
and their diapers will be bought in bulk

]]><![CDATA[On soaking up color]]>Mon, 11 Dec 2017 09:09:53 GMThttps://www.flatheadlakephoto.com/writing/on-soaking-up-colorIt's a great thing, to be able to soak up color. To let it "settle" into your soul. It really tickles my fancy when my eyes start to feel that buzz. The hum of a certain frequency of light. That visual tickle. That rush. Like the yellow in Kelly's panel, "Red Yellow Blue White and Black." I just saw it today for the first time on an art blog I stumbled across, and I loved it. I kept jumping to the yellow. But only in my mental peripheral.

I savored the fact that I wasn't exactly looking at it. I was sensing it. Sensing it's bright, overpowering inevitability with my soul. Aware but waiting. Watching but not looking. Like I was spying on it. Like I was part of some covert artistic operation. Where I felt like if I looked at it too soon it would fly away. Like a hummingbird you get too close to. So I saw it with my spiritual eyes. With my eyes; unseen. And I kept putting off actually looking at it. Like once I did, I would wreck everything about both myself and the painting in one stupid moment. So I pleasure-delayed. And just let the bright, cheery, spiritually illuminating, humming, buzzing, vibrant, still, yet chaotic frequency tickle my soul through my eyelashes. While I batted them at it. Doing a little dance with the color yellow.

And dance we did.

Luke Aaron Venters, 11-5-15
]]><![CDATA[Absolute Truth Exists]]>Mon, 11 Dec 2017 09:04:16 GMThttps://www.flatheadlakephoto.com/writing/absolute-truth-exists

Absolute truth exists.
One is not two.
Up is not down.
right is not wrong.
and male is not female.
Old is not young.
and young is not old.
Fresh cheese does not have mold. Black is not white. And loose is not tight.
truth is not a lie.
a hamburger is not fench fries and I am not a woman
I'm a guy.
clear is not convoluted.
and dark is not light
blind is not sight
and left is not right
clearly is not darkly
and fear is not peace
war is not peace
and rocks are not trees
freedom is not slavery
and choice is not command
wood is not stone
and sea is not land
this poem is not a book
and it's the eyes not the nose
that look
ears hear
feet stand
hands hold
and if it glitters
It might be gold
remember what has real value
and that that is truth
and not lies
do not be deceived
b
e

b
o
l
d
do not believe lies
and do not be deceived
no matter how hard
someone tries

~ L u k e ~

PS: Kennedy said, and is quoted in the photo at the top of the page: that, “We must never forget, that art is not a form of propaganda, it is a form of TRUTH.” Peace.

]]><![CDATA[Hemingway's Take And The Summer Sun]]>Fri, 29 Apr 2016 22:05:56 GMThttps://www.flatheadlakephoto.com/writing/hemingways-take-and-the-summer-sun"Suspended in the Summer Sun"

by Luke A. Venters

Don’t ask Hemingway about the writing you have written.
He may not like it. Or he may like it. But he'll dislike it just the
same. He'll feel threatened if it's better than his.
And he'll feel distaste if it's not. So either way you
lose for having asked. Don't ask
Hemingway about the writing you
have written.
Just write it anyway, and stick it in his eyes like sties.
Driving him mad with frustration and admiration.

Suspended Surprise
Basking In the Summer Sun
Wearing a Filson Hat and drinking

Pino

Pounding out Presidents
Like a Lump on a guitar
Feeling your father coming.
Not too far now.

Now holding your hair back from

Water
from wine

... ducksheen rain-walking between

powerline portraits rising tides of summer heat
Over there there's a Dewdrop dancer pretty in Pink.

…drop your friend off in the mountains

Stop at Finley PointFor a while. Oh Your hair.Is so long now.
A Perfect little Bun.
Hearing the hum of the buzz hum

Incessantly hum.
Seeing the first fire on the sign.
And hiding from the heavy summer Sun.

Your brother amazes you. With his familiar eyes. And his intelligence.
You’re amazed that he’s already twenty.

But not that he’s such a decent man.

Today we plan to go heartfelt
Lake land.
And take the world in

In a swim.

The water won’t be deep.

But warm enough.
enough to get in.

Byproducts of that summer Sun.

While flowers wait to fall.
Until the storm on God's command comes.

The heat
And the little things prance
The air floats hot–
And the people heavy

And the incessant buzz of that
Heavy hum - - -
plays tricks on my mind
trying to hypnotize me.
and madden me

Like a sickly lullaby mixed with
an air-raid siren
as I try to

Stay Alert!

The wine and the time aren’t helping.

Ha ha

Neither is the heat of this blasted rich

Summer sun.

Yes, finally a breeze picks us up.

the heat, and the people, and the things in the air.

The sound and tempo increase with it.

The dance of the things. And the interjectional deep hot rhythm of the

heat.

I wish my father would arrive.
And save me from this place.
I brought myself here.
And now I wait.

Leaning on this table.

In the heavy heat of this

Hazy summer sun.

Those sublimely happy people over there

Are spouting horrible, awful, nonsense

And sickly rich jibberish.

Like bind-weeds. Like what people call Morning-Glory.

They are there. Convolvulus arvensis.

In the quantum mechanical garden of my mind.

Filling up the air with crap about stairs.

Dogs. Boats. And they’re hoarding all

The silence to themselves.

Why O’ Why won’t they give me some?

Like a fish in a pond.

Like a sucker-fish looking for scum.

I so desire it. Why oh why won't they give me some?

(Especially in this humming-heat of this ridiculous summer sun)

A woman’s husband lost his phone. - -

So I scrambled & slid down the embankment.

On the other side of the railing,

Down from this deck where I am writing.

To look for it.

(I didn’t find it)

But I did find a broken shot glass.

And a way (through it)

So perfectly. And so momentarily.To find some peace.

For when I went downstairs to

Drop the glass in the trash,

I came across a group of people.
Waiting.
For someone to sing to them.

So I picked up a mic.
And sang them some Otis Redding.
“Sitting on the Dock of the Bay”
And that was that.

Tit for tit. And tat for tat.

Sit for sit. And hat for hat.
Which switch for which wrist swish?
And what cup cut for what rattatattat.

That was that.

And so I went back to my table.

Got my hat.

And in my car with my wine on the roof

I checked my phone for word from my dad.

And that was that and that was that.

At least I didn't forget my hat.~LV~ 8-7-2014
at the Finley Point Grill, on brown paper with a borrowed pen from a girl at the bar
]]>