New Drawing Section

I just added a new section Drawings 2015 to delineate between older and newer work. This is not by any means a comprehensive drawing record because I constantly make new ones. Some thoughts perhaps? Yes, just a few minutes.

Largely these drawings are poems with lines and marks, collage and abstraction, choices strung together, memory flashes, inspiration in the immediate. They document the life I am living.

I try not to hide the metaphors too deeply, preferring they sit on the surface, but there are puns and literary allusion mingled in the tight spaces. Sex, drinking, robots, poets, artists, film, death, atheism, art, cartoons, comic books, songs, music, madness, landscape, biography, loss, and science are just some of the things that compel me to make the art. That’s about all I want to say about the drawings. Find some meaning in them I may have missed.

When Time permits I’ll conduct a mass scanning regimen for more accurate reproductions.

no black hole

coitusing away too long in the demigod swagger,
humans invent the immortality
that is no fate of star or black hole.
humanity is good at horrors, but no black hole.

electric candled spruce trees wore us down
until the only way became the only way to prey.
i believed for a time, afraid of living more than death.
comic con cosplayers shuttled the theme from hero to
victim, to heroic victim, samaritan, to hippy beaten down by cops.
we will only ever be free of having to be appeased by release.

i went walking out in to the waves of a hurricane,
became tossed, beaten to the sandy bottom, scraped,
water boarded, blinded by brine, lost in the moment,
things could have become quite serious.
and in the wake no deities vying for my love,
no beatific cherubim escorts,
no sad eyed hippies and no demon pushing me under.
i found the end of me in the pummeling, and became lost at last.
alone in the sea, i caught the tide back to shore, saved.

Poem for Mingus

57 years, not long enough for a Charlie Mingus,
so much more music to make,
more cigars to toke up, more teeth to knock out,
and what about Epitaph? was it done Mingus?
there’s plenty of people to take those extra years from,
meth heads and republicans could serve humanity better
with a little less time walking around.
i know a few drunks that aren’t living well too.
but if we give some extra time to Mingus,
surely Basquiat deserves a few more months?
but can you give a junky extra time?
and who gives?
can we take from one junky artist and give to a
better junky artist?
what if they were going to get clean, in a week or two?
Should we give Braque some extra minutes also?
Or do you not like the cubists?
perhaps we should ask for volunteers,
transfusions of a sort, give up a little time,
maybe that time given up would be bad days anyway,
wasting away from liver cancer, or being beaten
by the day nurse in a final hellish room.
it sure would help humanity, or at least me,
to get things going in a more beautiful direction,
not a less dire, doomed direction by any means,
but a better view on the way down.

Poem #85

Nuisance jackets onceworn, whatever happened to the revolution!?
Won’t karaoke to a tune I don’t know.
Silent island palm tree cutters, making boats of broken notes.
Brick will float aboard corpse raft titanics.

Is dodo the Franciscan dream of men?
Winced once, missed the drop kick to the nether region paper boys.
Gaining toward dawn a new form Of wondering where the species ends its run. Guns or nuns or puns?
You would never mistake God for green lantern.

Irritated by Buddha skinned iPhone otter boxes I wish for equality in all irrational life jacket fantasy.
Why prey on salivation? Taste the rainbow only with thine eyes.
Wait and be rewarded, or warded wait for rewind.
Payback your debts because Neocons will have us all in chains before Saran rapture descends.

Poem #84

outside the grocery, quick lunch while between here and
somewhere else.
people watching, appraising, judging, making little stories
for the creatures passing by either into or out of
the breezeway of the supermarket.
i’m struck by the way they create their lives,
the afternoon grocery buyers.
if you wait, they will show you who they are.
they will show you sensitive fathers holding tiny hands
of child in pink dress, crossing the street, moving away
from my vantage.
a huge man, menacing in a scrap, laid low by tiny fingers.
striding business men in glossy suits that shimmer like
holographic paper in the sun,
important men, essential men,
samurais to their masters of industry.
I wonder if they will have the fish
or a burger or a salad for their midday meal.
so many elderly, moving slowly behind dark glasses
in big cars, or short buses, wandering into
and out of a world they no longer recognize,
yet somehow are part of still.
i am aging quicker now and soon will know
the feeling of being adrift in the new.
overhead the jet stream is moving,
the wind drops grit on all our faces,
the asphalt heats toward impenetrable summer,
and here shoppers appear, disappear
and lunch is finished.