Quarterly Projections

I added a new section for various photo projects. The first series added is Quarterly Projections, a project made in collaboration with Chris Adams. We held an exhibition of these photos in 2016.

Studies or perhaps end products….?

I recently remembered an old technique for generating compositions that involves making collages and combing them for scenes using a 2 inch or so viewfinder. I loved doing this many years ago and it still seems valid. Here are a couple examples that I may turn into some woodcuts or etchings or…..something.

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 #77

Comic book pilgrimage often took me
away from the neighborhood,
across strip mall utopia, paved over fields,
onto the railroad tracks purgatorial planes.It filled lakes of goodness in me
to chloroform the city for a few hours,

wandering the space between here and there,
behind the world.At crossings I passed through reality,

a specter in the windshield view of the living,
Fading into the train track alley to be forgotten, to forget.
I don’t remember what I remember, only moments
where life was left.
Rocky lunar landscape,

broken beer bottles,
twisted metal,
train jargon detritus,
a thin,infinite rectangle of blue sky,
comic book ink perfuming my hands,
fatally wounded by my reentry,
the moments fade.