Writing is an entirely different sport than painting. I hope you find some enjoyment between these lines.
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October 22, 2018
They took one last look at the river
And longed for another time
Saddened by the parade of motorhomes and meth
Stretching from the ends of the earth to right here and right now
They refused to join the neon funeral procession
They took their stand
And to this day they remain
Still
And beautiful
And made of solid gold
October 22, 2018
Cerebral flapjacks cooking on the whiskey bar
Artificial roller coaster couldn’t beat the bumper car
Creepers in the bushes, don’t look now
It ain’t no good
Sanitize it, light the wick
Then give ‘em all your food
Paint the cave and take a bath
But what about the money?
Stick parade, children laugh, hiding from the sun
Drink the water, drink the brine
Eat the fish and honey
Leave a tip and exit quick
As soon as all the eatin’s done
Sun and wind, electric eels, out drying on a line
The pizza burned the house down
And blamed it on the wine
Our feet are wet with old concrete
The Romans laid to last through time
We checked the clock, the time ran out
They said they didn’t mind
How about the ancient ones
Still soaking in the past?
The love they made, the things they said
None of which would last
They wrote their names upon the walls
Like flowers through the cracks
They killed the sky, they drowned the moon
They wrote them loud and fast
Look around, make no sound
What is it we have gained?
This is it, there’s nothing more
This is all that still remains
December 20, 2016
If we look to the seasons we see that darkness comes in cycles, offset by rhythms of light. And yet the darkness has never felt so loud as the discordant anthem of this asymphonic night.
We are tempted to see this present moment as the cold oppression of a tangible force. A standing army of arguments against our better angels. Generals, officers and even pawnsmen making strategy behind the fireless smoke. Tanks and armor. Bullets, bayonets, and words.
Yes, words. Words meant for good twisted beyond recognition. Word as a weapon. Word as a poison. Word as the famine, the plague, the killing of every firstborn. Word as the ultimate tool of victory and defeat. Word delivered in a flash of blinding light, deceptively cloaking darkness behind it’s insatiable heat.
We begin to think of darkness in terms of the battle as though might just might make right after all and light might somehow be wrong.
Don’t be fooled. There is no darkness. It is not a thing of itself, it is only the momentary absence of light. As long as there is love and beauty and a song to be sung, darkness has already been defeated before it even begun.
October 22, 2016
All art is a lie.
All you really need is red yellow blue and white.
Work fast, don’t worry about results too much. just keep going.
Don’t paint the things you’re looking at, paint the air between them and you.
Every piece goes through an ugly stage, just keep going and trust your instincts to bring it through. You will bring it through.
When painting next to another artist, loosen all their easel bolts when they aren’t looking and… wait, not that.
“Gifted” artists aren’t born with automatic talent. The “gift” they have is a deep and thorough enjoyment of the process, that brings them back for more and more and more.
Living as an artist is like Peter getting out of the boat and walking on water. No safety nets, and you’re bound to get wet once in a while. Watch out for sharks.
Selling art and making art are two very different arts. Don’t confuse them.
Be very careful not to dip your brush in your beer.
That is all.
October 22, 2016
Here is the heart of war
Against the hardness of life
Against discomfort and difficulty
The battlefield a narrow expanse
Fertile beyond belief
Due to the wonders of modern agriculture
Also known as
Coffee
Lined with strip malls
And donut stalls
And the same house on every corner
Where surf movies play on repeat
While a child scribbles away
On the kitchen floor
Trying to draw out the poison
From the wounds incurred
During last night’s family feud
He finds solace between the lines
He draws the places that
Remind him of other times
I tell him it’s art
And that it’s going to be fine
He quietly responds
That it’s all just rhymes
And though the child can barely whisper dryly
And my voice speaks bold and highly
We both see the scene
Through one eye apiece
And only perceive
Depth together
October 22, 2016
The artist.
You created this.
You accomplished everything.
Did what you never thought you could.
Lived circles around your own preconceptions.
Saw your children grow and scatter to the four winds.
Heard their glowing reports from the four corners of the world.
You’ll live your last days here in the shelter you’d always sought after.
Not working for the hollow dream of another man’s profit .
Just breathing now with the rhythm of the martyrs.
Breathing in the deep sweet breath of the dying.
Your youngest child still on the easel.
Bound to miscarriage.
No memories.
Gone.
November 22, 2015
She was just a child
Leading the Rebellion
With discarded toys.
Striking out
At them.
At us.
At herself.
And though she made a fool of the Enemy
Throughout the Ten Year War
She lost the Final Battle yesterday.
And now she is gone.
She left home too soon.
There was heaviness in the entry way
As she said her goodbyes.
We did not understand why.
Our parents cried.
She picked us up in her Chevy Nova at the age of sixteen.
We were only nine.
She smoked cigarettes like a real grown up.
We couldn’t see the road.
Just the upholstery and the smoke.
She gave us punk rock.
She bought us pizza.
She fought like hell.
If we’d learned anything from her
Perhaps we could fight back these tears right now.
But every drop is a salty rebellion
Led by a mere child
With discarded toys.
She was never one to be easily denied.
Goodbye Sister.
October 22, 2014
May 22, 2014
Load upon load
and weight to bear weight
these beams bear witness to our memories lost in the fire
on the night we crossed the bridge
to the hobo camp
passing driverless cars
and the rising tide
forced us to climb over the rocks in order to round the headland
where lovers loved
and dreamers dreamed
and thieves did their best work
stealing all that we had
and leaving us with nothing
but ashes.
October 22, 2013
Now let me get this straight, I’m supposed to want what you’ve got? Ain’t no wagon big enough to hold all the worldly possessions you offer, the shine and pop glittering off your leadbolten chains sunk and anchored deep in the molten core of the earth. No offense, friend, but I’m aiming to travel a little lighter than that.
Everything I own is packed up here, ready to go wherever life is still fragile and not yet covered with concrete and steel. Boxes of unsettled memories, most of them mine, some of them borrowed, but that’s just fine. I trade them on the roadside to strangers and friends alike just to feed my family. I got kids that call me Pa and a wife that loves me true and a newborn baby with eyes so blue they make the ocean cry even when the sun is shining, so it don’t bother me none that my tarp’s been leaking and my lung’s been rattling. You call me poor, but I am rich. Richer than you anyway. Your mountain of worthless money can’t buy what life has given me freely.
And you still say I’m supposed to want what you’ve got? You step out from behind your polished black veneer of tinted glass to hurl spit and fire at me, threatening with scorn that I should dream your dreams for you? You wonder why I stand unmoved as you command me to sign the dotted line and exchange what I’ve got for your drunken dream? A cup of clean water for your barrel of poisoned wine?
Your dreams are nothing to me. I am the undreamed, my friend, and your stillborn dream will be left on the road unmourned where it will be trampled by the masses you dreamt of trampling. And as for me, when all the words have been spoke and all the dreams undreamt, I’ll ignore my leaking tarps and my own rattling lung just long enough to smile on my kids and hold my wife close and jump in to the cleansing ocean of my baby’s eyes one more time before I have to travel even more lightly on.
October 22, 2013
October 22, 2013
October 22, 2013
October 21, 2007
For the ordinary soul who owns not a boat or a plane, the only way there is by your own two feet, one step at a time. Unless you are the ordinary soul’s dog, in which case it’s more like your own four feet, two steps at a time or something like that. In other words you’re just gonna have to hike. Eight miles. On sand and cobblestones loosely piled up between vertical mountains and the deep blue sea. Only at low tide. Higher tides and the surge of large swells will submerge that little eroding sand bridge to which your feet (or paws) will hopefully remain planted upon. One such surfer and his dog endured that hike in the late spring one year, after a season of heavy storms, which swelled the creeks and brought with it a series of rock shattering swells and a fierce longshore current that removed all but the most stubborn sand deposits. Oh sure, they scored some quality surf, but it was a ride they took on the hike back that would define the trip. It was one of those days when the low tide wasn’t really very low. Combined with the somewhat unruly and large swell, these were not the optimum conditions for attempting this hike. But since boatless , planeless, and now foodless ordinary souls and their dogs tend to need to get back into town once in awhile, they really had no choice. The day was getting late. Only a mile or so to go and then it happened. The ocean seemed to calm a little, and the air became quiet. There was no reef or sandbars on this particular stretch of sand, just deep water. Taking a check of his surroundings as an alert surfer will do when the ocean changes her tune, he knows he’s in a tight spot. Sheer crumbly cliff greets his left hand, the big lulled ocean his right. Up ahead about 60 yards is a somewhat higher sand berm he’s been heading toward for the last ten minutes. So close, but with the forty plus pounds of gear on his back, it’s a good minute or so away, even at full speed. The swell is running at a 17 second interval. He grunts and picks up the pace, but no sooner than he became aware of making that decision, he sees the deep water welling up on the shore. Seeing the futility of racing this impending wall of water he braces for the worst. He sees his dog running for high ground and as he digs his hands into the course and cold sand he watches the first surge of water envelop his companion of the last seven years. A second later it’s his turn. Larger than he had anticipated, the oncoming whitewater makes quick business of uprooting him and tossing him shoreward into the cliff. Then comes the rebound back to sea. Like a rolling stone he is pulled off the beach, barely getting a gasp of air before going deep into the drink. Being dragged to abnormal depths by the pack on his back he wrestles himself free of it and begins the task of exiting through the large shorebreak. Finally making his way up the beach, he stops and looks for his dog. Scanning the shorebreak for any sign of life, he finds… ► CONTINUE READING