Siostra Adelphos (2012)
In collaboration with poet Andrew Sestok, Siostra Adelphos is a series of fifty poems and fifty 5" x 7" paintings.
I used the small size and large quantity of pieces to experiment with a variety of techniques in texture, depth, and color. Many objects make their way into the paintings as well: bone, hair, lint, and other fascinations of mine are present in several of the works. While large-scale paintings are encompassing and majestic in nature, I find that small works invite a more intimate examination.
I am in love with the idea of reliquaries. Several pieces in this series serve as housing for objects of nature--these are, to me, the holiest of objects to be protected and kept safe.
No use chopping cherry trees in the forest.
the evermore useless
‘Move along folks, nothin’ to see here.’
all for vacant lot of human principle,
an acquired taste morality is.
...and so goes the old worrisome oak
and his final plea.
-to be in earshot of significance.
neither Jack nor London,
even Thoreau with his Walden
not a one soul was near enough to hear
the Last Leaf fall.
What is wisdom,
but the accumulation of experience?
Cat and mouse coincidence
and the aftermath of an aftermath.
“Man mugged and shot early this morning
By tax collector; claims to be
the second Christ,
Last seen on the kick,
No one’s listening.”
(is this valid poetry?)
Coffee’s Black on thought,
The rolling stone holds no moss,
I never could learn Spanish. Third times the charm.
Diner intercom reads:
“Man with three heads on trial
for Imagery this afternoon.”
-no one’s listening.
closing in she looks
Genuinely displeased to see me.
[“What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take two eggs.
agent orange audience
snickering at stage dripping
wet paint don’t touch television set.
waiting for response..
it is boredom that has now reached everywhere.
suburbs are gloom with tired linguistics.
pots of flower are in season.
butchers are sweating in coolers,
their sons have spoiled the meat
with tears of joy in their eyes.
voices are now becoming stagnant
and popular with white noise.
need a clash.
outside kids are howling over the latest astrology hype;
what year is it?
Give me time machine eyes.
Both radiant and cool
with skipping stones
across the rippled cardboard.
the markings of an ancient past time
or a Dead language-
In one ear and out the other.
Give me polluted eyes.
Both light and marvelous
of empathy and
for the mankind colosseum.
Give me the recluse eyed
vacant, & unfamiliar,
the road less traveled leads here,
though tunnel eyed, The Vision.
A world gone mad
to say the least of it.
A night to unpack...
But you get used to it.
I have been plotted against
by enough street lights.
I have heard the laughing choir
of the shower-head orchestra.
I have seen visions of
on running concrete and gypsy ferris wheels.
I have felt euphoric hypnosis
end in doorway with two legs.
(Mike, you were right about everything.)
of these, I have fostered no fruit-
earlier this afternoon I
calculated the study of clouds
on a meditative landscape.
not their philosophies.)
after several minutes I
embraced the Illusion
where shoulder meets neck.
I tuned into the fine knitting of
Sacred Rainbow Threads in the
Eternal circuit Board-
into love is all the everything-
into Indigo museum on fire in the kitchen-
into disconnected on purpose-
into Indigo fire in kitchen museum-
into no-thinking all-thinking-
I came to with theory.
Down the rhetorical wormhole
and up the precise paradox.
The most cunning of data
thieves cultivating my harvested
bright young minds to mold
into pathological liars.
Flammable egos think to keep away
from the athletics of pride
and scholarly out-houses.
Far away from anything extraordinary.
Far from the extinction of suffering.
Far from Nibbana in general.
Typical burping of kitchen
at 3:42 a.m. on a thursday.
Mr. Weisen Solemn burning his own origami neck-ties
and pretty insightful,
tending to every head in it’s proper place,
But I am liable to drift up streams of
Sacred Rainbow Threads
with no cents in my pockets. On Blood March
to the origin of counsel.
a meeting of the census.
the octaves intellect is an impractical accusation
for these are innocent pedestrians
running their rounds; Thus,
Dharma is not of Mankind to know.
Corpse carriers to the furnace,
tonight is a night for evil doing.
exceptional young gentlemen
walking on masks and
the reverse face.
Handsome generals who
would love nothing more
rescue from you
the responsibility of living.
The moon is down
and has been,
would you cut to the chase already?
Dead giveaway Boxcar Delivery service
a new dream aborted about every
eight to ten seconds.
the global submissions,
we heard the arts and crafts
of our love into bushes,
and branches of dust and
through wall conversations.
the all-seeing eye hovers close
the hand that feeds.
all the while,
pearl of time
is letting some disappear.
as for the rest of us,
we survive on close-calls and
quieter than the wind
to hear the earth happy.
to hear the soft sputtering
of truth and love
upon the fragile lips of
Adolescent figurines are Ballerinas
beneath epileptic porch light
that flash silhouettes of
wind-chime violinists swimming in the cold cement.
Chilled hyenas giggle with savvy pleasure
under moonlight starry-night
who’s swollen loneliness
Will and can never be measured.
Oh, how silent the night is--
after the fondness of nostalgia
has lost the center of interest.
after the crickets have crowed
their last of
angsty poetry and Rabid hormones.
After the fever has
drifted and passed by
counter-clockwise over high fire.
Oh, how silent the night is.
My immortal youth was apprehended
by the illusion of Divine medicine cabinets
and the array of Holy extracts and elixirs
I nursed in sinister obedience to an
anonymous physician I’ve not yet had the
pleasure of meeting.
In time of great need and cruel youth,
I was conditioned to deposit my sins into
plastic bottle caps and to excel
in the Psychology of the Human Parody,
observed and reviewed under glass
and documented as such.
I was substituted my youth for Copper Baptism,
the Silver Bowl Salvation of cheap skull,
wrapped in white linen and passed to
every lady and every gentleman occupying
expensive congregations of the Most
Valuable Minds of our Generation.
The yearning of my youth in False Doctrine
air mattresses folding into each other and
giving birth to new classes of Wool
Intellects, inspired by the seeking
of Faith in Nepotism.
This morning I woke up in tomatoes and eggs for 20 years.
My silverware is spotless,
I am not.
The heretic counter-culture
for the prophet
and nothing but perspective.
Lousy insects on the bottom floor
humming bird songs
from one humanitarian to another.
recycled ashtrays and comic books
collect collages of modern love
for the hipster soup kitchen.
Take a slice and pass it on.
and where does love fit into this?
for what greater satisfaction can love own,
but to share it?
The idea of being love conscious.
Burroughs says karma is truth
and I think I believe him.
Who goes there?
exchanging of hands for fingers?
palms pregnant with revelation.
two cigarettes burning two holes
into parallel controversy.)
(back to center.)
Bottles of poison Ivy cracked ajar
Leaking odor into busy intersections.
Naked arms performed significance
while still concealing the very private pavement
of what has come to pass.
neurotic compass eyes
dial into subconscious-
the activities of taboo
For whom this may concern.
Gravity tells us, “What goes up must come down,
pursuing certain equation
must not have seen.
Certainly, the Algebra of Need.”
Burroughs Don’t talk so great
with hair in his mouth.)
History tells us,
And all is well,
and all is fair.”
and so goes the Art of Longing.
The Bombardier escape plan
from the clearest perspective.
(not for the faint hearted)
electric eels run crystal haywire
for roofpanels of the Land
“Where Men hang from ceiling fans.”
There is an art farm in the
corner of the room,
But no ants.
Two agents of the silent police
squirm into happy as a clod of dirt
Keeping savvy Dialect while
chit chatting intellectual nonsense.
Soft typewriter in the room below
Alters the spectrum to-
Identical widows cut from the same fine clothing
who leave peeled onions in the sink
and build clocks.
Old fashioned clocks that shatter into glass windows.
Seymour Glass on the piano in the hall,
the ocean room with little miss Sharon Lipschutz,
he sings: “Tabloid massacre on the front page
of the 21st Century.”
anyone opposed of the mosquito Drain?
zoom out… lengths away Dragonflies are made
to cancel their wings in mid-air.
zoom-in… the settling of dust and smoke
to reveal a bundle of tiger lilies.
and a note that reads as follows:
“this is all I can do for you
Persecuted by an arbitrary Juryof my doll face peers
who hours later will be
at the bar
across the street
digesting radios and alcohol.
The vauge projection of sobriety
and certain blood tests
to prove my being guilty of being aware of
A non-obtrusive conclusion to white noise
Everything is temporary says aloud
the Phoenix of time and general youth.
(to have known no room stiller than dawn,
hair on the floor in fragments)
"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette for me
now would you?"
young-minded individuals equivalent to
an Atlantis microcosm, pleading with sacred rainbows
of manana for the descendance of wet towel
dominoes in an alley sky.
Enabling the evolutionary snowflake
to bestow the gift of scarce enlightenment
upon my fragmented tongue, thusly
extinguishing all formerly frivolous residences.
Sprouting there on my brow is an
Aurora Borealis of pixelated tiger lilies
purging in exuberance from my rooted consciousness.
all the while, nocturnal folk-lords and
the most lucid of chaos enthusiasts are
dangling beads of stringy sophistication
in forlorn of pyramid pupils and opposite schoolhouses
on the brink of mannered dichotomy.
Knowing full well in accordance to spiritual
obligations to allow ourselves,
when the time comes,
to act as,
and volunteer to be,
the catchers in the rye.
Blessed are the eyes
of the beholder.
in which to wander.
Past early Death
and former squalor.
Past cuckoo’s nests
and pigeon Slander.
who reaches Grace and to the hostage--
“I can offer God,
I can offer Birth!”
But holiest the hostage
who prefers the wander,
“The world is a stage!
And the horrors of Theatre!”
-”Hey, Burroughs. Burroughs, tell your ma,
thanks for leavin’ the light on.
what must have been charisma
looming suspicious over the rooftops
of ghost town perimeters
where handsome tax collectors
can be seen combing their curled locks
of blondish concubine with grinning enthusiasm
and sparkling vitality.
azure eyes and petrified of peering into
the cereal messiah awaiting cordially
downstairs in a basement
guarded by four white washed walls
and figments of junk rendezvous.
the canopy withdrawal and a bad back
to perpendicularly ponder a futile sky
in captivation of the feel good pendulum
flattering bones of out skin and
encouraging the leap of vein.
Imperial is the courtyard of saintly cuisine and chance factotum,
stirring askew the skilled poachers momentum and villain
Enraptured by the haunting of your eye lids
and enthralled by the reverence of pearls under misplaced fingernails.
The echoof endeavors committed in a labyrinth of bathroomstalls and portals to reality checks
engraved in Dog Years
being spent in a cornucopia of rotten spindle,
but your conundrum is my conundrum.
Even if for fifteen days you were dead.
(stay with me now..)
antique schoolroom window facing
abnormal oblivion. teacher on stage,
pleading, “ghosts come here too.”
some students tease tongues out of
give flight to small
paper airplanes, finally landing teacher hair;
(who has calmed down drastically
and is now standing in one corner of the room
glaring into the narrower end
of a lampshade.)
tale-bearing halls of ventilator speculation
and gossip, “fresh breeze and seaweed upstairs,
‘nuff to go ‘round too.”
warm clicking of shoes on cool hipsters
walking back and forth
readjusting their reputation
by means of beat placement.
I’m the only one who hears it,
armageddon in the hallway,
kneel down under wooden desk of
abandoned carvings & former initials.
paid my dues: and..
of a sly limousine
mysterious in dwelling.
the margin of excellence
or an affair of suburban rituals
broadcasted by radio talk show hosts,
luminous on leather microphones.
rag-dolls for supper in jovial picnic baskets
of cranium manifest.
congestion continuum of affordable graffiti in
lieu of conscious thought and light-hearted limousines
with sensual interior.
rows of heads turn with
frozen eyes casting blue shadow across metal lake.
tuxedo cuisine on the first floor of
times square dizzy plaza that i dream of often.
where is that you have gone from me?
stations i did know of before i forgot.
the proud iron lion casting company
pitching, “just two dollars’ll get ya from here to the moon son.”
scene: (zoom in)
“so it is my understanding that this so-called secret underground police force of guerilla madmen fresh out of the loony bin-with chill hands and cigarette butts in there eyes and runnin’ outta eyes. So now they’re resorting to more drastic measures, if ya dig? which is fine and dandy, i’m not worried about that in the slightest. what does concern me most is they’re sayin’ now they’re using the main sewege system as their own personal ashtray and pollutin’ our water.”
“yeah, i heard that. just another one of those beaurocratic government conspiracies goin round, i think.”
Sailed suburban ocean
to happy hill stargaze.
Fat cat fountains
vandalize the Milky Way.
Galaxy Bike walk,
No side moon talk,
“Well, everything lives on the axis,”
Pixelated tree canvas
take anonymous shapes
“Lower the city to make some room!”
off you go
and back to the lab.
telegram after telegram--
Burroughs in the asian market
touching vessels with lovecraft.
“Yes, I can play piano But only when I’m dressed.”
“I’m spiritual, you see.”
Burroughs’ ma caught me going crazy
in the asylum and the asylum was empty.
out dated vessels are empty vessels,
Dead vessels I heard circulating Blood,
set to a timer,
The graveyard shift in the shed adjacent.
i keep my gloves on just in case.
the imaginary mockery is mass-producing
the acorn whistle is the fool’s song.
I am a fool,
Adding pocket lint to pocket lint.
I’m cold, but I feel poetic.
Talking madman-Beatnik so and so.
We are three apples
in a dirty refrigerator.
We are the polish Kings and Queen of the
three wise Brother-Sister-Brother.
we approach (like three wombat bums)
young God in the Flesh.
Lunatics--we come baring three gifts:
i can chew the fat
with an ambiguous amphibian
and all that
subjective universe bologna
in my spoon.
for now there is famine to be tended
upon the android continent.
not separate from hologram delivery service
injecting shinny veins with the corset culture.
one taste of distilled euphoria
in hallucination of an evening sun
obscuring plastic dolls flawless.
the perspective apocalypse sketching debris
on an aluminum street where you can pay to see
frogs shed their skin for tarantula eyes.
Of whom is subjected to sensation carnival
or ensnared by the root of eternal existence:
are you face or are you mask
Of whom on coarse stampede for subtle tranquility
and comprehension of consciousness revisited:
are you there or are you glass?
Of whom in astral desolation sought transient
companionship with an external compound of
are you veil or are you flask?
Of whom are engrossed by the impermanent
consistency and the process of becoming
are you meal or are you mass?
the fewer and far between
barstool acrobatics and collaborations
of curiosity in dilation of delusion den.
Men with stick and tire
bent on bait and fire.
still training ourselves to open for interpretation
after all these years
of hands and hammer.
have gained neither noose nor solitude;
and lost ourselves in the process.
and the apprentice.
and the bean-stock.
Plundering no trail of bread crumbs to
a hieroglyphic God or
monuments of divine porch.
Decades of shrine and trench
gulping sawdust candle-wax
and confessing to compass geography
and wealthy protractors.
A smudge of grief folk-lore from early Dog Years
and how far we walked in the meantime
looking for eyes
looking for mine.
Shells of treason cleansed of jigsaw puzzle
in a salty bath.
The drowsy estuary magician’s hypnosis
over shy raccoon chasing lines of introduction,
meanwhile transcending to
fields of wild flower nectar
teasing two nostrils foul;
in other words,
I’m more likely to burn
than 30 monks.
The happenings of human contact,
see and learn the
Between two trees.
of the opposite wisdom.
Hanging out to dry
and good for the taking.
and the ole’, “Aliens do exist,
I’ve seen martians
with my own two eyes.”
out from the inside of
and I’ve heard the lambs
cheer for their own slaughter.
The greatest abortion
served on a silver platter
and the medical decay
of some political matter.
“all have emerged and all for the better.”
the street corner,
street light working class
hide their prophets as I pass.
“all have purged and all for the better!”
My collection of tiger lilies
and reading material
Manifests into sky.
Burroughs in the gutter with lovecraft,
Newspaper sailboats and “It rained last night.”
Mom says night and the cat
I catch you Before sleep and dream.
Closer utopia. and all to me.
But too close and sure enough
another victim of the Fever Police,
who speak pleased and easy,
“Oh The happiness of human contact!
In a dream,
you were smoking a cigarette
Golden lungs squirming
for elbow room.
You were wearing collage eyes,
remote with a hint of longing-
but mostly lonesome.
Cars passed under centipede-legs,
and you were lovely up there,
in your green happiness machine.
The air bursted in private “...to the grave.”
rumors of refuge in ruins and
brown paper bags of artificial momentum.
new youngsters not divisible by mannequin logic
using parables and syringes to inject rag-tag
on several accounts now of deliberate lunacy
and talented chaos.
barking at the morgue of citadel America
in jeopardy of losing it’s identity to the pocket gallery
and basement technology.
barking at the science of attics from an amused
pavement gown, visiting from relay circus and caverns
of fashion contortionists.
barking at the membrane syntax ingrained in an omnipotent
ego bestowing upon our heads the promise of
oral punctuation and surgeon prophecy.
barking at the personification of morality in obsolete
gratification while simultaneously the idols of pyramids are
fostering the masses into barrens of instantaneous shelters
soon to be foreclosed.
it is of these things that i have known;
barking because at the end of the day poetry should be read
Dogsick and jaded from too many doses
of estimated postulation.
I should have taken more notice of the moldy toast
evangelizing to an oblivious oven boiling lobsters.
Paralyzed by pliable decoys of embezzled ambrosia
proposing diligence for the common humanoid
entitled to corporate America,
the only other structure on earth,
built by hands,
and not new to nebula.
I had to kick the assembly cold turkey and make haste
for the bohemian ferry on course from
bridge to bathtub phenomena,
bound together by the euphonic tile of ambient embroidery.
Mining for allegory coal
and a couple dogs in kennels somewhere
snarling venom gestures of sincere malice.
cardiovascular tug-of-war on territory
and the origin of treason.
collars useful belts
for the fetching of flea infestation
or post modern love.
penalized with malnutrition of paternal instincts
frantic and disjointed in visions of
dog eat dog world.
yelping from aristotle table-tops,
utilizing the posture of masculine jugular.
an heir to the throne; the most honorable of
stakes in the ground.
Once triumphant in childhood masterpiece,
now lackadaisical and boyish burning a rusted spoon
and callus for heaven;
Hands once heroic in the precision of Grace,
now rabid and hypothetical proving angelic contentment
through trespassing glory of tissue
apparatus; who once in credible nobility
settled the reconciliation of blunder in sovereignty,
now sitting cross-legged rationing
and divvying up banana peels for the incarnation of an
Who once mournful of the grieving drawer epidemic,
banished from thought the silver freedom,
now in resilient contemplation of the funeral bloom in
or rather, the same place that
spirits go when they die.
I pity the man who has materialized
the mechanics of human misfortune.
I pity the man who has sterilized
his veins with contagious sensation.
I pity the man who has immobilized
the art of Genuine communication.
I pity the man who has globalized
the wretchedness of underwater asian markets.
And above all else,
I pity the man who has fantasized
The carving of love from a wooden religion.
falls like candy
over hungry vessels.
The piñata prophet
talks up the yuppie-scum gospel
atop a golden pedestal.
The ropest piñatas
hang low from the apple tree
and the masses come with their bats.
The festival of Piñata
Draws as impressive clientele
of whom swing bats...and do it well.
Who sit proud as parcels inside a Something shell
Singing, “Piñata, Piñata, we wish you well,
Piñata, Piñata, we know your spell,
Such a secret, we’ll never tell,
a fortune to keep all to ourselves!
our piano tongues
in young blood casserole.
we surrendered to gluttony
and loosened our belts
while feathered laurel trinkled
melody souvenirs of past lives into
an organic garden.
(this actually happened.)
involved in cannabis conspiracy
guessing the legend of soma holiday
I’ve read so much about;
my sea-foam eyes were suspended in infinite jest
devoting symbolism to the common curiosities
A Bomb drops in the distance--
we were quiet there by the fence
on awkward highway shoulders.
We lasseled the moon
and pulled tiger-lilies from his palm.
The grass complained about--
“All the Noise!”
Somewhere a television drops
and everybody everywhere watches.
Lightpoles laugh and announce,
“There the vultures will gather!”
We close our eyes
and count our happiness in the stars.
The mayan auction Begins
and we’re homeward bound.
You remember one foot from the road back-
“I forgot my gloves in December.”
I smile, “We’re gonna need a map.”
New sun in Mexico
Illumination soft typewriter
in charge of printing profound mysticism.
Pure chaos addresses me from
third person with promotion,
“Number one, Mr. chaos never plays it safe.
Number two, Mr. Chaos always comes
Dressed for the occasion.”
The obscure projector in dusty room
Behind cat eyes-Double-sided glass-
looking in, looks like - [The verde fuzz emitting an ernest glowof warm visual contrast]
-experimenting with Green theory
and the host hypothesis-Admitting allegiance
full-heartedly to the Illusion of Significance.
False moon for the cause.
False clouds singing, dancing, applauding.
Hang from the trees
expert chameleons are shooting their way to
...and so goes train whistle-heavy listening-
close by- “Sounds like he’s heading North for the movement.”
I put down my things
and hop aboard the underground railroad.
to avoid being seen.
shimmering in synthetic light
imitating clarity after soft rain fall
in the evening,
only came to go again,
taking with it
our weightless infinity
of cast and glory.
Where as cobweb dreamcatchers are
marvelous glimmering under
fragrance like many grapevines.
Reading Kerouac to keep quiet,
talkin’ ‘bout not-a-thing.
so art is food, i think.
(Love for the world perhaps)
‘nuff to go round too.
coming to an end.
Weight of spirit bow
& arrow to launch friendly porches
lighting matches on our travels.
All-seeing interpreter of Sacred universe recites for us
the fundamental laws of love:
Lounge here gypsy one
for there is time to be warranted.
Emerald eye passengers in
recording stupors of kinetic mitosis
reoccurring the nucleus of spiritual awakening
and marvel introspect.
Weary of big brother and the cobweb monarch
hatching cocoons of butterfly surveillance
nesting symmetric nuclei
and conscious geometry.
Identifying spectrum taxonomy
and parallel homeostasis.
In concerns of an absent morning
we concurred the mystery regime
and theory of Limbo Motel
in the meantime.
If we should know one thing
may everything that falls,
fall to the weigh side,
but LOVE is the ship.