Siostra Adelphos
​(2012)

In collaboration with poet Andrew Sestok, Siostra Adelphos is a series of fifty poems and fifty 5" x 7" paintings. Half of the pieces started with a poem, and I created a painting in response; the other half started with my painting, and Andrew penned a poem for each.

---

Acrylic, epoxy, and leaf on canvas

Significant.

(part one)


No use chopping cherry trees in the forest.
the evermore useless
Glue-
Smile-
teeth.
‘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. 
and surprisingly,
neither Jack nor London,
even Thoreau with his Walden
in attendance.
seemingly,
not a one soul was near enough to hear
the Last Leaf fall.

(I was.)

Acrylic on canvas

What is wisdom,
but the accumulation of experience?
Cat and mouse coincidence
and the aftermath of an aftermath.
Newspaper article
reads:
“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.
Waitress approaches,
closing in she looks
Genuinely displeased to see me.
[“What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take two eggs.
Scrambled.”]

Acrylic on canvas

Jack Kerouac, Jack Kerouac, 
Where do you keep your enlightenment at?
For I know I’m a fool, But I have to ask,
Is that Dharma there, in your rucksack?

Acrylic on canvas

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.
interruption maybe--

outside kids are howling over the latest astrology hype; 
            what year is it?

Acrylic on canvas

Holy holy holy are-
of angelic eyelids
spoiled by Bliss and fatigue uniform.
Though fortunate for the
rewarded loss of time consumed.
Stuck on Seymour, Jack?
                        -me too.
People used to stare at my feet
so then I started wearing shoes with
socks.

Acrylic on canvas

Give me time machine eyes.
Both radiant and cool
with skipping stones
move cautions
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
columned dirt
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.

Acrylic, needle, and thread of canvas

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
Dog phantom
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.
(Their movements
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-
soon...
I came to with theory.

Acrylic on canvas

Down the rhetorical wormhole
  and up the precise paradox.
The most cunning of data 
thieves cultivating my harvested
spinal cord, 
  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. 

Acrylic on canvas

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
than to
rescue from you
the responsibility of living.
The moon is down
and has been,
Steinbeck, please
would you cut to the chase already?
Dead giveaway Boxcar Delivery service
reports:
a new dream aborted about every
eight to ten seconds.
the global submissions,
we heard the arts and crafts
of our love into bushes,
sticks, stones,
and branches of dust and
through wall conversations.
protected thoughts,
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
marijuana cigarettes.

Acrylic on canvas

quieter than the wind
to hear the earth happy.
to hear the soft sputtering
of truth and love
upon the fragile lips of
Nature’s translator.
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.

Acrylic, thread, needle, and seed pod from the garden of Gesthemane on canvas

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.

Acrylic on canvas

I see the world as brief and from afar,
Watching them make love on handlebars.
Teach me something valuable, mean me no harm,
You don’t know me, but I know who you are.

Acrylic on canvas

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.
Plus,
Burroughs says karma is truth
and I think I believe him.

Acrylic on canvas

(part two)

Who goes there?
exchanging of hands for fingers?
palms pregnant with revelation.
(aside-
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.

Acrylic and canvas

What a surprise
and what a guest,
the only-comes-out-at-night
Garden pest.
Who peels the fence 
from off my back,
and it comes off slowly
and then he laughs.
The dirt, it quivers.
My sanctuary is a burden.
But cynical, the Black cat
can have it,
he earned it.

Acrylic on canvas

The Bombardier escape plan
from the clearest perspective.
(not for the faint hearted)
electric eels run crystal haywire
horizontal
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
format.
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?
unanimous decision.
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 
           now.”

Acrylic on canvas

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
                        energy manifesting.

A non-obtrusive conclusion to white noise
chuckling back
belligerent mediocrity.

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?"

Acrylic on canvas

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. 

Acrylic on canvas

Blessed are the eyes
of the beholder.
Eager enough
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.

Acrylic on canvas

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. 

Acrylic, hair, wood, and anole on canvass

Call me Lizard King,
immortal by morning my
tail will have grown back.

Acrylic, wood, hemp, and hair on canvas

Imperial is the courtyard of saintly cuisine and chance factotum,
stirring askew the skilled poachers momentum and villain
digest. 
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.

Acrylic on canvas

(stay with me now..)

enter void:

antique schoolroom window facing 
abnormal oblivion. teacher on stage, 
pleading, “ghosts come here too.”
some students tease tongues out of 
mouths.
while others, 
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, 
coming up.

kneel down under wooden desk of 
abandoned carvings & former initials.

paid my dues: and..
(flush.)

:Exit void.

Acrylic on canvas

temporal perspectives
  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. 

Acrylic on canvas

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 

advertisement--

pitching, “just two dollars’ll get ya from here to the moon son.”

alright so, 

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.”

Acrylic on canvas

Sailed suburban ocean
to happy hill stargaze.
tinfoil garages
Fat cat fountains
vandalize the Milky Way.
Galaxy Bike walk,
No side moon talk,
“Well, everything lives on the axis,”
They say.
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.”
“Of course.”
“I’m spiritual, you see.”
“Of course.”

Acrylic and lint on canvas

Burroughs’ ma caught me going crazy
in the asylum and the asylum was empty.
out dated vessels are empty vessels,
I think.
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
Highways overhead.
the acorn whistle is the fool’s song.
I am a fool,
I think...
Adding pocket lint to pocket lint.

Acrylic on canvas

irregular minds, 
explosions in the sky with-
in compilation.

Acrylic and thread on canvas

I’m cold, but I feel poetic.
Talking madman-Beatnik so and so.
          essentially,
We are three apples
in a dirty refrigerator.


We are the polish Kings and Queen of the
German incinerators,
three wise Brother-Sister-Brother.

we approach (like three wombat bums)
           young God in the Flesh.
Lunatics--we come baring three gifts:
Love-
           Love-
                      Love.

Acrylic, epoxy, wood, and frog skeleton on canvas

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.

Acrylic on canvas

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
                                                     celestial entity:
                                are you veil or are you flask?
Of whom are engrossed by the impermanent
  consistency and the process of becoming 
extinct:
                               are you meal or are you mass?

Acrylic, deer bone, hemp, hair, and anole on canvas

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.

Acrylic and feather on canvas

the catch 
and the apprentice.
the swarm
  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
fundamentals of
childhood happen-stance.
Between two trees.
close utopia.
Fertile earthworms
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
science-fiction kaleidoscope.
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
meows invisible.
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!

Acrylic on canvas

There is a church
Down by the sea
Grace enough for Jesus Feet.
Across the way
in the west,
Machines are elected president.
There is a church
Down by the sea
Grace enough from whales to sleep.
across the way
in the west,
Machines are the leading consciousness.

Acrylic on canvas

In a dream,
           you were smoking a cigarette
           and coughing.
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.”

Acrylic on canvas

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 
aloud.

Acrylic on canvas

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.

Acrylic on canvas

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. 

Acrylic on canvas

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
infinite appetite;
Who once mournful of the grieving drawer epidemic, 
banished from thought the silver freedom,
now in resilient contemplation of the funeral bloom in 
                                                      stupendous wicker, 
or rather,                                        the same place that
spirits go when they die. 

Acrylic, pencil, and receipt on canvas

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.

Acrylic on canvas

Piñtata horseplay
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!

Acrylic and feather on canvas

our piano tongues 
in young blood casserole.
home-made consciousness 
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;

that night,

my sea-foam eyes were suspended in infinite jest 
devoting symbolism to the common curiosities
of pangaea, 
utopia 
& etc.

Acrylic on canvas

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.”

Acrylic and anole on canvas

(part three)


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
camouflage freedom.
...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.

Acrylic on canvas

Cast away
Dog whimper
after midnight.
slow smokescreen
to avoid being seen.
overpass protagonists
shimmering in synthetic light
like
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
           Violet skyline,
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.

Acrylic, stone, turtle shell, hemp, and wood on canvass

view with doors open

Three 
step 
cigarette 
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:
stay
as 
long 
as 
you’d 
like.

Acrylic on canvas

Lounge here gypsy one
  for there is time to be warranted.
Emerald eye passengers in 
coherent stenographer
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.  

Acrylic on canvas

Dialect untouched by mistakable love,
Studied at once in measurable cups,
“Drink up, my Darling, drink up.”

Acrylic on canvas

E.E. Cummings, on rooftop heavens,
Making passes at all below him.
All at once in awe suspension.
Receiving glory from odd collections
of Microscopic [t,a,d,p,o,l,e] children.

If we should know one thing
for certain, 
may everything that falls,
fall to the weigh side, 
but LOVE is the ship.