Poems, and “sorta poems” that poured out in the places where other words might have belonged…
05/23/2019
When ones and zeroes
No longer add up
And the printing press
Runs out of flesh
And the headlines
Have nowhere to run
We’ll pick up the pieces
Build temples of song
Made of discarded words
Metal vowels and consonants
Foraged from fields
Like seed for migrating birds
And the truth that emerges
Will cut to the bone
Like mist
Like light
Like all that we are
And all that we’ve ever known
05/21/2019
A friend I had just met earlier at an event in San Diego invited me for a rare visit to this exclusive piece of California’s coast. I absorbed it with all my senses as we surfed all morning and I painted all afternoon.⠀
⠀
So what exactly does lie behind these locked gates? Here’s a few things that come to mind…⠀
⠀
There’s bamboo and nasturtiums⠀
Shelter from the wind⠀
The rich and the famous⠀
And a few of their kin⠀
⠀
They’ll question you silently⠀
Check who you’re with⠀
To be sure that you’re nobody⠀
So they know who to dismiss.⠀
⠀
There’s a boathouse on stilts⠀
A pretty woman walking down the street⠀
Surfers walking back up the beach⠀
Blood still dripping from the soles of their feet⠀
⠀
There’s yoga pants and selfies to shoot⠀
A slippery rock holds a sign full of laws⠀
Merely suggestions for the leashless dog⠀
That nearly got paint all over its paws⠀
⠀
There’s fires burning on the higher hills⠀
Smoke blowing out of the canyon⠀
Heroes and children stand watch at the gate⠀
With garden hose, bucket… and shotgun⠀
⠀
There’s black cars with blacker windows⠀
Caviar and music for the blind⠀
Leave your shoes at the door, my friend⠀
All this and more⠀
Is what lies behind
05/18/2019
It’s the end of the west
It’s the setting sun
It’s a train-wreck that’s only just begun
It’s a crowded bar
It’s the law of the land
It’s illicit activities obscured by hot sand
It’s a war at sea
It’s the first shots fired
It’s victory in sight, though not the one desired
It’s a shift in the wind
It’s an outgoing tide
It’s the last man standing as the captain died
It’s a history lesson
It’s the name of the street
It’s a blank stare from the strangers we will never meet
It’s childhood freedom
It’s only in jest
It’s just getting started but it’s the end of the west
October 22, 2018
A fine line
Divides the pursuit
Of overwhelming joy
From sheer
And loathsome
Irresponsibility
The high tide line
Divides
The rest
Consider us divided
And
Conquered
Even the Spaniards
On the tall ships
Know…
Both victory
And defeat
Taste better
With a dash of salt
And lime
October 22, 2018
Who wrote this book of etiquette?
All of the pages are blank
As though the ink has spilled right off the paper
Leaving us to write our own rules with pencils
And skin
And burning eyes
After reading from cover to cover we are left
Just as we were before
Somewhat crude
And still rather unrefined
October 22, 2018
Even though she was royalty
We continued to stare
At the lines
Around
Her blue eyes
And at the
Shape of her
Trembling
Lips
That encircled
Her delicate mouth
Meeting her was
Our good fortune
She showed us grace
And mercy
We did not
Earn
Little did we know then
Just how good
The Queen would be to us
Or just how difficult
Fortune can be
For those
Who have received it
October 22, 2018
The hills are burning
And we breathe the smoke
Of their exhalation
Second hand exposure
To long forgotten memories
The mountains never forget
October 22, 2018
Hovering over the water
Weightless over the face of the deep
The storm rides silently off to the hills
To darken the eyes of the cattle
And drown out the country music
The light that remains
Clear and unfiltered
Falling from above
Reveals an orchestra of liquid geometry
At once carnal
Yet also divine
Each note the offspring
Of a passing storm
With the laws of fluid dynamics
We’re drawn to the symphony
The melodies ring beyond the hall
To the cliffs high above
Calling us to a quick dip in the sea before dark
But once inside the concert hall
We’re swept away in a mass movement
Of salty sweat and black leather
Nearly drowning in the mosh pit
Bruised, bloody, and broken
From there we glimpse the orchestra more clearly
Four awkward teenagers
And a mountain of noise
Who allowed these kids to take the stage?
It is here that we learned this law of the sea-
It’s always bigger
Than it looks from above
October 22, 2018
We came to this mountain in search of gold
We’ll leave with pockets full of solitude
We speak to the wind
We are here now
Everything else is gone
The cars and houses
The monies and the media
The interconnected web of information that
Ties us all together
None of that can truly exist at all
We know because we’ve listened to the quiet
That raged so loud our ears bled
We know because we’ve stood on the edge
And peered over
And seen everything we ever held on to
Smashed against the rocks
And washed away
Only to be returned as the treasures of
Small children on the outgoing tide
Dream on, dreamer, but when you awake
You’ll find nothing here
And that will be all that you need
October 22, 2018
Our father
Kept us moving
Even though
We stopped a bit too often
To read the signs
And ponder
Their meanings
When it was time to move on
We would often
Have to push with all of our might
Barefoot
On the rough pavement
Our father
Drove a Volkswagon
October 22, 2018
Sunday morning.
Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling the choir is singing an old song.
Out here under the open sky the choir sings the oldest song.
Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling, a choir is singing a new song.
Out here under the open sky, the choir sings the newest song.
The angels sing softly on the wind, they roar like thunder on the water.
They’ve sung from the beginning.
Unceasing.
They’re still singing now.
They’ll sing until the end.
Maybe even longer.
I worship out here with color, because I usually sing out of key.
When I am finished, I will go sing badly in the cathedral.
I enjoy those songs too.
Or perhaps I won’t sing at all, but I may still hum along.
But one thing is certain- on this Sunday I will go at night
Because the morning
Is full of light.
October 22, 2018
Out from her
Slumber
Eyes blinking
At the newly minted greens
Of a silver spring day
The forest is full
Of dollars
But she is hungry
For the fish
That used to swim
Up the river
Today
She will
Stand still on the old
Logging road
And even though
The whole earth shakes
On this day
She will not be moved
October 22, 2018
As the old roads evolved into flight paths
We considered the implications
Of exploring
Rabbit trails
From the sky
And determined
For all the expansive visions
That pass through an elevated state of mind
There are other paths that are still better
Traveled on foot
Where you can hear the
Crunch of gravel
And feel your blood move faster
With every uphill step
And be reminded
That nothing worthwhile comes easily
But for now
Just sit back and enjoy the views
We’ll be landing soon enough
And besides
Here comes the flight attendant
With snacks
October 22, 2018
They sit motionless, watching passively, not engaged in the passage of time like you or I, yet not outside of it either. We travel the world searching for new experiences, new understandings of what it is to be alive. They watch us come and go and always return again to their steady gaze. Changed, yet somehow always the same.
They have no need for comings and goings, yet they do not mock us. They know better. They have seen enough to know that our days are short, and our nights long.
They’ve seen our births. They’ve seen our joys, our fears, our love, and our tears. They’ve seen us wed, and they’ve seen our blood shed by hate, by sorrow, by intoxication, by miscalculation. They’ve seen our recreation, our red tape, our revolutions. They’ve seen our wars, our battles, our nobles, our scoundrels. They’ve seen us die. They’ve seen our burials, our burning bodies, our ashes scattered amongst them.
This is their secret: knowing without any effort that if they wait a little longer they will see it all.
If you are still, and you can hear the silence between the rumbling oceans, you just might even hear them sing.
Each has a different voice- one loud, one soft, one strong, one deep, one high, one low, and one with the voice of our Grandmother.
October 22, 2018
We’ve spent long days here
North of the river
We’ve spent
Our last two dimes
On
Heaven
And waffles
And a good night’s sleep
Sheltered
From the falling snow
Until the storm blew over
And now we ourselves
Are spent
Worn out
Like the two
Ragged
Dog blankets
In the back of the van
One more look at the ocean
Before we head home
And two things
Become clear
We’re not going home tonight
And
We’re gonna smell like dog
In the morning
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
09/20/2018
Sometimes a painting or a place stirs up more of a poem instead of any sort of story. Not sure what I was thinking here, but when I pulled up my notes on this one, this poem is all I had written down. Make of it what you will…
—
Bones of old ships
Left basking in the sun
The mast of an ancient whale
That swallowed the sailor’s son
Observed, measured, recorded
Love notes in the margin
In their book of numbers
Written but never done
It’s the allure of the sea
It’s the stairway to heaven
It’s the ticket that was rendered
For breaking the number seven
On that distant ship
Out near the horizon
They observe the charts
and adhere to strict notations
Students of the sea and sky
And of the publication
Of their book of numbers
Printed but still in revision
It’s all here and plain to see
When you separate the many from the few
They shout a holy countdown
But the answer is found in the long view
06/25/2018
Painted on location while giving a somewhat distracted interview with a Bay area newspaper editor…
Donuts cooking on the dashboard
As I jumped out to meet the press
We discussed life and art and history
A dozen different ways to make a royal mess
We dodged the ticks and poison oak
And spoke as loud as we liked
Out of view from road and rangers
The park was closed, but in we hiked
I painted quick while he took notes
Scribbled on a yellow pad
Answers rolled in like a set of waves
The reef made of questions I never knew I had
We spoke of Griffin and his mastery
Long after we both met our maker
Griffin jumped in right away
But me, I’ll follow later
05/07/2018
Sometimes it’s cactus
Sometimes it’s a rusty barbed wire fenceAnd sometimes it’s just plain old self-realizationStanding in our way
April 20, 2018
He’d laugh this little howling cackle that pulled you into his slipstream as you made your way along the path, down the makeshift rope, repelling into the cove below that you’d never seen breaking before and now was suddenly cracking it’s sonic water booms on the reef below. Everything made him laugh. And almost everything he laughed at led you to math, calculating the odds of survival. ⠀
⠀Some friendships are like this.⠀⠀He led me to a burning mountain.He led me to wildcats prowling in broad daylight.He led me to a cabin where I spent long evenings watching dragons in the heavens war against the winds on earth below while Jack Kerouac sat on the recliner by the lampstand fearing the dark.He led me to the psychic who knew more of me than I even know and probably still has all the secrets she summoned from between my words dried out and saved in glass jars for seasoning on vegan tacos for the next visitor she entertains.He led me to the Captain who loved her and didn’t speak much because she already knew his words anyway.He led me to high ridges with views in all directions.He led me to a trailer where a Stranger poured me a glass of bourbon and shared Her cigarettes in the dark. ⠀⠀Her name was California.⠀⠀She led me to fields of poppies glowing red with love for all and none.She led me to highways that carry hearts to heaven and hell.She led me to destinations even deeper still.She led me to kelp beds anchored to the skulls of conquered peoples.She led me to endless lines of barbed wire fences that scraped into my flesh and instead of bleeding the wounds poured out cheap wine and could only be bandaged with brown paper sacks.She led me to the top of the steeple of the first mission on her skin where the air was as thin as the plot in these verses and where the smoke has been rising since it was burned to the ground in 1775.She led me to her far north where the trees were once taller than any lie ever told.She led me to a path on the edge of a cliff following a friend as he laughed his way down the mountain. ⠀⠀And she led me home.⠀
December 20, 2017
While researching reference material for this studio work, I came across a photo of Salvador Dali and his wife, sitting on that boulder beside the dying snag of cypress in the center of the painting. Look close and you’ll see them.
A lot has changed since they sat there in 1963. The grass is gone, trampled by tourists revealing an even greater boneyard of white granite.
And the tourists. Oh my. I’m not knocking them, I’m one of them when I’m here, marveling at this wonder of nature. But when I tried to paint a small study here, just a few steps from that boulder, there were so many people there that as soon as I set up my gear to paint, I was surrounded by a crowd of onlookers asking questions, poking at my wet paint, smiling, nodding, taking photos, you name it. It was nuts.
I keep a pair of headphones in my gear for tuning out distractions in times like this. Even that wasn’t enough. They kept coming on, crowding around and asking questions that would sadly not be answered today. Out of survival, to create some mental space and focus, I did what I had to do. I started singing. Loudly, and badly. Punk rock songs from my youth on full blast, for the world to hear and withdraw from in embarrassment. It
worked. I had a great time that day.
Afterwards I hopped a fence to sit on that boulder and eat a peanut butter and jelly
sandwich while pondering whether Salvador Dali would have liked 80’s punk rock or not. I may never know, but I’ll ask him if I ever make it back to 1963.
And a painting like this deserves a poem as well I think…
Pay the toll⠀
A piece of your soul⠀
And leave it there as a sign⠀
A cardboard box⠀
Full of rocks and socks⠀
From which we will rise in their mind⠀
Extrapolated⠀
And captivated⠀
Forever to walk this lonely line⠀
They’ll see us standing⠀
Calling out in the night⠀
With bare feet wet from the brine⠀
They’ll slow to a stop⠀
They’ll wonder how⠀
The water and ethers combined⠀
If they listen we’ll say⠀
It was because we payed⠀
The guard at the gate to get by⠀
⠀
So heed my words⠀
And stare straight ahead⠀
For it’s from this earth you were made⠀
You belong on it truly⠀
Its dirt is your body⠀
And these guards are made only of shade⠀
⠀
You’re a plumber⠀
A builder or an electrician⠀
Whatever it takes to convince them⠀
To let you pass⠀
Without taking your cash⠀
It’s not the money it’s the darkness it gets them⠀
So give them only a nod⠀
A two finger wave⠀
And a subtle but sure acceleration ⠀
With confidence high⠀
Drive right by⠀
Subterfuge will be your declaration ⠀
That you belong in their night⠀
But this day is all yours⠀
Like Dali, and Griffin, and Vincent⠀
Masters of sight⠀
Pursuing their vision⠀
Trespassing all baseless tradition⠀
Their work lives on⠀
But they are gone⠀
At rest and free from earth’s friction⠀
⠀
So when the future arrives⠀
And they ask our ghosts why⠀
We’re still here and still walking this path⠀
We’ll tell them plain⠀
We believed the guards⠀
Who said we’d have to pay to get past⠀
⠀
So stay free in the sun⠀
And when the day is done⠀
Just move right along down the line⠀
And pay not a dime⠀
To the liars in wait⠀
Who seek to trap you in debt for all time⠀
10/16/2017
They sit motionless, watching passively
Not engaged in the passage of time like you or IYet not outside of it eitherWe travel the worldSearching for new experiencesNew understandings of what it isTo be alive.They watch us come and goAlways returning to their steady gazeChangedYet somehow always the sameThey have no need for comings and goingsYet they do not mock usThey know betterThey have seen enough to know that our days are shortUnlike theirsThey’ve seen our birthsThey’ve seen our joysOur fearsOur loveAnd our tearsThey’ve seen us wedAnd they’ve seen our blood shedBy hateBy sorrowBy intoxicationBy miscalculationThey’ve seen our recreationOur red tapeOur revolutionsThey’ve seen our warsOur battlesOur noblesOur scoundrelsThey’ve seen us dieThey’ve seen our burialsOur burning bodiesOur ashes scattered amongst themThis is their secretKnowing without any effortThat if they wait a little longerThey will see it allIf you are stillAndd you can hear the silence between the rumbling oceansYou just might even hear them singEach has a different voiceOne loud, one softOne strongOne deepOne highOne lowAnd one with voice of our Grandmother
09/14/2017
No roads in, no roads out.
Washed out 40 years ago.
Just this narrow footpath remains.
Yet they live here.
And walk this path daily.
Packing life in and out on their backs.
Even the children know who belongs and who doesn’t.
And they will ask.
If you give a wrong answer, I’m not sure what they’ll do.
Don’t give a wrong answer.
It’s a certain kind of heaven here.
But there is a certain kind of hell around the corner.
Complete with fast food and poison.
You’d keep them out too if you could.
09/13/2017
It was only a lifetime ago, that we stood here and watched, scanning the horizon for very real threats. It was a different time, when triangles and protractors could save the world, and ones and zeroes just belonged to the hobo’s walking the rails.
It was only yesterday we stood and watched, scanning the horizon for lightning, long out of range and out of season. Everything’s different now. No need to reminisce. Anything we need, we can pay for with ones and zeroes.
So close we could almost feel the blast. A flash of light. A child screams. But there is nobody left to put up a fight. Just some ones and zeroes.
We never saw it coming because we sold the watchtower, and carved the earth from it’s foundation. It still stands, hovering and weightless above the earth and sea. Inaccessible for all but the names of the fallen, written on the walls with triangles, but traded for ones and zeroes.
I shelter in the book of names, their colors shade my vision. The falling mist and threats of passing showers cannot hinder me now. I am hidden by ones and zeroes.
