Sitting at Alewise 8/5/11

grass and hot glue guns
I sense it--all the colors of an old home
sun rays remain restful
howls remain joyful and quick
long necks of geese flood my line of sight
as their beaks open, my ear canals widen with insanity, hungry for false memories
creations of the mind fraught with wormholes

here at Russel Field I live again
and fold the laughter into my flesh
my tangled pit of a stomach is cooled by familiar sprinkles
water meets pavement and in its death finds a new beginning
I miss my old coat of chlorine
security blankets never grow tiresome
orange juice hats and baseball mitts
fitful blissful
clutching for roses

The Power of Art

"This is what drives the greatest art: contempt for ingratiation."

Simon Schama

Rembrandt von Rijn, "The Conspiracy of the Batavians under Claudius Civilis," c.1666 (Oil on canvas)

Cage Scape

the feeling is round and familiar, resurfacing knots--contorting my muscles and producing water from my empty holes. the tiredness of ache cascades like aquatic notes, what is left of such old news? what hurt can be squeezed from a plum dry as stone? the pit in my stomach tells me you are as real as the slenderness of my fingernails and that you live buried deep in the breaches of my heart. dull pounds and what for? why even document these lonely nights when your ancient and wooden voice lulls me down into quicksand? I sit while you beckon and call to me "lovely" and you make me cry for hours and you never come.

mystery, intrigue, infatuation, have moderate half lives--I have seen them all they are knuckles without girth and I have outgrown them

"In The Eye," Suzanne Vega

If you were to kill me now right here I would still look you in the eye
And I would burn myself into your memory as long as you were still alive
I would live inside of you I'd make you wear me like a scar
And I would burn myself into your memory and run through everything you are
I would not run I would not turn I would not hide
I would live inside of you I'd make you wear me like a scar
And I would burn myself into your memory and run through everything you are
In the eye
Look me in the eye

watercolor/charcoal work in progress

Notes from Double Edge 6/16/11

We are about to enter the kingdom of the Dead--some of us will breathe and some will not; some will have hot blood, some will have no blood at all. My heart grieves for Ajax, the strongest of the few, unjustly called upon for humiliation. A wall of windows--green with envy, blue with despair, red with ire, and ice cold gray for shame.
What are the Dead like? The same minus the soul. And what is a man without a soul? A cavern, dank and all adrip with the tears of old sunlight. What are the eyes like? Windows to nowhere, or to a wasteland. Unconquerable and hungry for the company of neurons. Unrelenting--all the Dead do is look and look. Every image is a feast; this they learn once life has said goodbye, prematurely or otherwise. Strength is no concern. Made of memories, they are broken matter and fade with time.
T.S. Eliot thinks the Dead wear "deliberate disguises" but he is wrong.
Tonight I want to know what it feels like to die; I want to know what it is like to confront my killer who implores me to say "hello, old friend!"; I want to play Persephone's fool--director of fevers and madness.
What does it feel like to have something fly out of you? To have your body burn?
Getting the blood must be a cold climax.
Ah! What does it mean to haunt? Yes, to haunt. I have found it. Tonight, I will get all dressed up to do my haunting at long last.
Distant and solemn eyes like rain, unable to verbally communicate with one another. Speech is a form of life, is it not? The birth of a thought, totally unleashed on the world and able to fulfill any prophecy.

Plunge I and II

some watercolors

The Vault

Antlers

Crow/Cavale

Subterranean Sensations

Witch Grace

Towers of Strong