Saturday, November 30, 2013

A Route Not Followed

It occurs to me
I could have gone the other way
in the last 10 years of my life.
I could have kept part of what was old,
broken only a piece of it,
introduced a new fragment to plug in.
So I would have a new
and old life patched together.
I might have enjoyed the seams
that would quickly fill with
experiential plastic, transparent glue time
where I would respite.
I would be sitting and
traveling perhaps.
The real life segments would
soon develop boundaries,
memory would seal them from each other.
I could even take on different names
and make up different histories
which my memory would
embalm in plastic membranes.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

A Frozen Dance: Video

Friday, November 22, 2013

Intro to my Art Book

When we go to the museum we think there are only 100 paintings in the world and a painting is by nature real and celebrated. But paintings are as numerous as raindrops. They are a tide crushing the resources of the world. They are born from the creative wombs of billions mostly never framed and rarely viewed and when they become things encased into wood or glass they pour like molecules of water into the narrowing space of dwindling buildings.We can't have anymore paintings. Our houses are full. We are begged out. We can find no one to drag them away.

When did I learn to paint? Was it the time I was so full of failure that I poured my confession on hapless Milicent until her father asked me to leave? Was it when
I returned in the middle of the night dropping my very best door painting on her porch?


It's just a fungus
that makes my toenails white,
and ancient wounds
(to the extent that anything
can be ancient)
within the brief limits
of one not yet over
life. It's my body
always lived in
but never examined.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

New E-Book of Paintings and Drawings

Monday, November 11, 2013

Food Parade Supermart

The large
man underdressed for November
booms at the uniformed
kneeling guy who pushes
chocolate bars on the shelf.
The lady glides, slimly with
forward pressed jaw and
questions in her eyes. I
rush down the aisle,
by the anti-organized children
and duty-bound citizens with
wealth converted into protein,
and worried-looking men.
An array of
cloth color contains bodies.
No music
only machines confidently
stating their instructions.

Tuesday, November 05, 2013


Thank God for my eyes
and for the color. When
I cry and my eyes
emit paint, I make
the fields dance and
the stars circle each other
in the sky.

Saturday, November 02, 2013

YMCA Annex

Mounted on one wall
a board wrapped
in brown paper.
A signal of
impermanence for children.
Painted were a rainbow
and a hundred tiny hands
in the colors of poster paint
all spread palm up,
receptive, uninformed.
As I heard the
echos of soprano voices
I felt the fantasy of tiny fingers
brushing my
sophisticated face.
Smiling all around,
the people brought
the smiles in.
They were not
manufactured there,
but heated in the lives
that came there,
retaining their warmth
through the hours,
saying hello and hello
and welcome everyone.