Poetry Reading in St. Paul

Double Hungry: Sustainable Poems
Black Dog Coffee and Wine Bar
December 18, 2013


Several writers/readers, well worth a view.
Heid's introduction (incl. James) at 4:50.

Voyagers - A film by James D. Autio

Sheep with Balls - charcoal on taped grocery bags

Writing journal - acrylics on book cover

Owamni Falling Water Festival

(All photos by Bette Autio)
Great art show today at Father Hennepin Park in Minneapolis. I saw quite a few old friends and met many wonderful people.  Today was my first art festival as a presenter and not just an enthusiastic spectator. Thank you to everyone who stopped by, looked at my art, chatted with me and shared the special day with me. Thank you to everyone who purchased some art or prints. I had a great time!

It's alive!

Does it live?

Greetings, internet friends!

It seems that I'm rarely updating my blog. Does anybody come here anymore? Do you have any interest in me resurrecting this page?

YES [  ]    NO [  ]
(Please check one.)

I have been producing lots of poems and a fair amount of art: paintings on canvas and journals, charcoal drawings on paper bags, woodcut prints. Leave a message and let me know if I should start to update again.  I will assume your silence means, "James, you're brilliant and beautiful, but don't bother."

Gifts of the Lake Spirit ~ by Donna M. Autio

Paintings - acrylics on journal covers

Cupcake - A film by James D. Autio

Bones & Skillets pt. 1

Owl Drawing - pencil on paper

Ahab - gesso and acrylic on journal cover

Disturbed Animal Series - charcoal and gesso on taped grocery bags

Disturbed Animal Series - charcoal and conté on taped grocery bags

Hump in a Field

Hump in a Field

Fragile Hump that in a field fell.

Plays. Melancholy yet within a furred

lamentation spread. There he is

a wandering blossom rooted deep

in woven soil. How silent under hungry

mounds where they had laid acquired

of such attentive Hump. For a companion

that lacquered the burlap aisles, half

full of gentle kisses and crests

into airy arcs though sought he to calm

upon distant landscapes. He if we knew.

Our noses too reduced to sprouts

that are lit of a twist tie confessor. Even

kneaded with such easy glimpse, early

awe. Of which we will find ourselves

blessed. I am now a fuller space

with a whisker breadth empty,

dining at the compassion pan.

Hump open now. Hump from each side.

From each distance filled. Rooted.

And each of me can bear surprising wonder.

Flash Forward: A film by James D. Autio

Powwow at Prairie Island 7-14-2012

Erasure Head in the Blind Kangaroo Bucket

       Empty a cloud gather go. So numb the tongue

a channel plus opened. Edges within. An entry

       was must for the patient fervor. Who wants

as a grafted stack hampered at bleak dilettante

       phases in a waning harlequin chair. Beleaguer

while jarred an upsurge. Pumped to the cushion

       bleak cot fretted and mild. Of a perpetual state.

Who lacquered that oaken door shut. That the

       entire buzz of denoted hoards left to cling by

their uneasy guilt. Until rubber bounced upon

       the chiffon crevice, kept at no better effort as.

And only in undoing has flown out the noiseless

       erasures. Then with such the tamper hammer

man sociopath. The circuit closer to a roo sack.

The Lady in the Radiator

Ophelia the Willow Bowed

Led on a tawny velvet tuft. Laertes were there a young lad

while she what does she do up by a bit bowed the limp

she towered. Where led the winding crevices may still be

seen a gnarled brain skin under immaculate glass dome.

That the barley bent over her a lunging bulge. They unmet

of purer the ledges and rope slung from a truss. Played she

an enormous mask against the hated bourgeoisie. Yet she

had forget with each is seen from a willow bough a mist

religious. Led that most dark she feel alone. Feel herself

slipping. Should rend her desires into each of us proceeded.

Still spread that can bring us to peace. As of a blank slat

that float at for we too drifted past. Stained the long years

with her drowning. Led as when were a nocturnal bride.

She we mourn in murmurs behind the pulpit pages lit.

Supermoon

Hinged the Hearse Pot

Her husband is a cannonball

disguised with the pigeon

tealeaves he brought. It

unfold blank a troubadour

epidemic. We take off our

shoes, whereupon her man

scuttles to a window shade

with his Yorkshire prayer

booking via back hand.

The whole place lifted as

with heavy smoke and dark

shapes for warm faces to

make lump noises. Visitors

to turn pale pink, gruesome

little hedgehogs. To be bust

open at tobacco pouch seam.

They are chained to matches.

But in my face a light to look

of foreseen circumstances.

Her husband have a large stew

pot. She has in pieces of clingy

silk laid out on her backyard.

Lemon Lime Pickle

Better will ensue and of open spaces live through

   to estranged thresholds who by bunches uttered.

Clear they stand among such dresses as the needle

   work kept starved. Are trembling aesthete dances.

Could fashion a pillow pinch of rags. For what that

   the bunting might divine about such tender labors.

Among the solid things like beauty by the moment

   of hands closed on astonish thief in tiny fragments

of hectic morning. The percolator is purring. To be

   slung too, if stretched center between the brains

in disarray. Slough presumptions. Ambitious to be

   she, a mere delightful being of such complexity.

 *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

 *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

Under Hoshizaki

You’re there now, up against the subway grating

and the music breaks vulgar for which you were

turned happy. Little dumpling twinings. Slider

you’re a tight reach box on the sidewalk concrete.

You were not smoking a moment ago. To have with

imps you danced hacky sack lush midnight footbag,

become were the moon travel grunts glorious along

with assemblage prostheses, only after which sexy

moments established their evident hold. You are one

pleasurable curiosity, no dancer back but you come

shuddering a perfect chandelier cabriole foot carve.

Terribly the same things amusing, more preferable

now to make at just cardboard, not for dog sausage.

Sluice your little fingerling. I see cobwebs collecting.

It is warm down that face under ramps that blow

under Hoshizaki. We’re of both mythical reminding.

And what up did your trunk but with manage see.

Vis-à-vis

Mean while awashed in the putty

and petty in pruitry, we labour

to stave isolate, in a way me as dandy

and here you tapping on the glass,

treading brine in the other jar. Don’t

you know me by now? What.

With no stitch of close, embryoed

via softshore float and stuffed

under a two-tin lid. Me, boy. Maybe

were it not for the jarring, we’d even be

umbilicalled. Yet we too are kept a feel

as pulp mash for the screening trough,

await on artisan’s whim, even

made of stern fibres to scrub along

the complex curvature of our inner housing,

but not likely to loosen the lid up top. Still,

flipped and fetal like the chance de maldoror

in a doppelgängered image suggested

by glass, rain aside and mouths wide.

                                                Silent.

You see we're nude, fluid move

in our amniotic drip. You might wish

to rush to crash and hoist me to your flowering 

dug. Instead, we flatten pliant heads

that may the better be full. And hope.