Monday, April 25, 2011

room #106

forgive me for wearing the black lace stockings
with the pink men's dress shirt ... it was too cliche
too obvious the image i wanted to burn into your marrow ...
forgive me the openness & adaigo of intimacy
made for one another
we were cut from the same-smooth-cosmic-pebble
( it is a carmel-topaz-color )
we reek of sex & solitude
forgive me the surrender as it pierced your steel skin
and your heart
( ahhh , we are so fucked )...
bowing into the risk of the moment
we are easy . .  and
we talked of faith, forgiveness, love & lady gaga
the bones of your head, the contours of your face
now lie where once my fingerprints existed
transformed by your fragility & sorrow
transformed by tracing the shadows & light of you
your scars sing to me of heavy woolen blankets,  fire & silver
lying in your arms is called belonging
and today rain wets the longing .. .
making it immediate & pungent
forgive me for awakening

Friday, April 22, 2011


this is where sorrow resides ....
between hours & light
this hour where the only sound is the
morning dove's lament
hollow & transported
maple seeds whirl to the ground
in direct ratio
to the swift rolling of the cumulus clouds
closing that sky-blue window
of daylight
the bottom is not
really the bottom
it is found here in the sideways portion of our show
tilted & lonely
stripped of expectation & heart
your breath
and bear that weight
the wind shifts
the air is heavy with basil & peonies
and it smells of rain & stillness .....

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

inspired by hope & #19 . . .

gypsy calling
white-washed walls
elephants & tattered halls
step with me down into the canvas dark
step with me down & guard the spark
come, listen to my story
and paint the lies
listen to my heart
and bury the cry
trust the key
though silent & ethereal
awash in grey with a trace of the material
pick a brush of the finest bamboo-silk
layered with basiled  honeyed-milk
we follow the trail of something more ...
we follow the trail to open doors ....
hidden by bowers, thorns & deception
we travel down in rose-colored perception
shaking off shadows soaked in rye
shaking off fear laced with sighs
unlace the mirth & tackle the adventure
open wide the glass & comfort the pretenders
gypsy calling
white-washed walls
elephants & tattered halls . . .

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

now 2:17 ...

1:10 AM
quiet here
except for the clock
ticking rather incessantly
but that's the nature of clocks isn't it ?
to tick tick tick .....
regardless of the ratio of quiet stillness to the passing of time
ticking rather incessantly
suddenly i am chilled
i glance outside to the darkness where no clock ticks
but a train whistles & the wind blows
still ...
and I know that it is time for bed
no great poem will be written tonight
no profound thought or game changer
no extraordinary breakthrough
just an ordinary late of night
chilled, quiet & tired
the clock ticks

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

April 1st

as you walk there along the broken, cobbled sidewalk
close your eyes .
close your eyes and feel ...

feel that ?!?

the wind against your face

slowing your gait

caressing your contours

close your eyes
and listen ....

listen with every every infinitesimal particle of self
listen with very the essence of your being
listen & feel ....

feel that sun piercingly bright, pressing upon the folds of your eyelids
feel & listen
as in this moment you are
white bones strengthen against the warm rhythm of air
wind shimmers boldly thru the trees
moving you into a place & space
capable & free
golden and
youth straddles the currents of april's wind
hold out your arms
and as you feel the weight of the world & the wind
suddenly it lifts you to a place & space
that smells of dreams & lilacs & yesterdays possibility ....

trust it
go now ...
close your eyes

Sunday, April 10, 2011


"was never bright nor still at sea
no wave upon the blue
quiet there in cosmic air
and the pretty ones flew true

embrace the kcowrebbej you maiden fair
the toes the tickle, the arms that free
embrace the bujuj fish & find
the beautiful hctanredanb
she could not find her feather of air
briefly the minutiae lover she shunned
so wakened by the mutmut root
and laid in whirling stupidity
but instead of laying in stupor
she flew suddenly and
the kcowrebbaj with soft lips of cool-ice
smoothly thru the blue water
and not a sound it made
a, b !! a, b !! not at all in sync it went
the feather of air fell without sound or fury
and she gathered it upon her back
never to be seen again with that
did she wed the kcowrebbej ?
fleeing away in water blue you sullen girl
oh suojbarf night . weep and cry
she bemoaned thru tears of grief.

was never bright nor still at sea
no wave upon the blue
quiet there in cosmic air
and the pretty ones flew true"

Saturday, April 9, 2011

# 9

coffee . . .
coffee & birdsong . . .
foggy grey morning
ready for change
ready for spring
on this grey-morning-saturday
and so the finch lands upon the budding curly willow
neither sex or sunshine or worms
not with drink or diversion
maybe everyone has holes they can not fill
even birds ...
idiotic & sophomoric
to learn to love the one were with ....
we are never what we seem to be
we fall apart
we fall together
we sing
we drink coffee
we fall
we rise
what i don't hold before me was never mine
and we love through the fire of time & falling
a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush


i walked a crimson thread to the moon
i walked in a dress made of stars
i walked with my hands full of blooms
i tripped and landed on mars !

Thursday, April 7, 2011

canvas ....

left to my own devices ...
i become rocked by the rhythm of highways
folded inside out
i stand upon the cusp of you and
drink hummingbirds of delight and
i sway to the music that drips down from that indigo dome
regret lies broken & undefined upon your floor
left to my own devices ....
i wrap your warm gypsy hand about my heart
and dance to the
memory of fire.
startled by the coldness piercing this night
i keep the vigil that is loving you
left to my own devices ....
i will sweep my naked being across this palette of blooms
and paint you in
lemon verbena & ginger
knowing that it brings out both the merriment & the sorrow of your eyes
i alone will remain
left to my own devices ....
the patterns of people moving inside the lines numbs one ..
numbs one to the thrumming pain of the solitary stone
left in the frigid, rushing river of this so called life
struggling against something unknown & un-named :
cold, yet brilliant
dormant yet beating
smooth yet jagged
tame ... but not.
borrowed for a time into these small trembling hands.
writing, reading, waiting ,,, writing, reading, waiting.
is it suppose to be like this ?
does everyone know truth ?
left to my own devices ..
i would wear gossamer white gowns of lined-dried cotton
crisp & smelling of april
indistinguishable from the cirrus clouds of that day
that day
we broke the table
playing at passion & need & all things timeless & ours .... remember surrender ?
left to my own devices ....
remain ....
bold ...
and wanting.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

a story ......

i wished for you
sitting in that wooden seat in the library
you were standing in the doorway
wearing a yellow shirt
and you did that thing with your head, kind of a rocking nod
and a wink
and i got up & followed ....
you smelled like home
you rescued me from ignorance, peasants, boredom & the borders of my skin
love, sex, secret agent shit, understanding
corvairs & car rides
need & lust exchanged for a painting of dragons & orbs
and a dance
i'm not in love ...
understanding awakened from it's cosmic slumber to
on a warm day in tall grass
a recognition of wholeness
we gamed, we lost, we gained
we tossed the dice & rolled back . .
past the spell of
time & distance
i wished for you
solitude & madness
thru pain & flared redemption
i wished for you
on long drives
on the shoulder of the road
somewhere for me
around a corner
in a bar
along some quiet street
beside me
i wished for you
there were lines thrown
tangled, damaged
i wished for you ....

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

... then the burlington rooms

the stewart gallery is jammed to the brim with every imaginable, nostalgic item on the art. a tired, old dropped ceiling stretches over a 1960's striped use-to-be-shag old carpet, and several pieces of goodwill furniture line the room on the main floor. smells emanate from another time - retired & distant. florals mix with plaids, mix with more florals plus faux leather and folding chairs. npr drifts out from some piece of radio art - dozens of battered discarded boom boxes & radios of every size are creeping out of a silver trash can. dave's uber cool shadow boxes are everywhere : bits of church alter paired with camel cigarette boxes, and cut-outs of 1940's pin-up girls,used cigars. brilliant landscape photo's of nebraska are interspersed with bold primary oils of 
- women. 
women on the street, women at bars & coffee shops, women mingling together.
women in various shades of undress. short black & blond hair mostly, and short skirts revealing pastel panties. nipples peak out from open neck lines and occasionally a small jack russell pokes about in them somewhere. 
you see, dave's speciality, dave's love - is women.
it becomes more apparent as we travel thru the gallery. this was my 5th time at dave's i think. it's not always open, nor are the upstairs rooms always ready for guests, but tonight the red light is on. 
you angle up the building in a series of stairs & landings. the carpet underfoot, old & well-trodden - constantly changing from one color to another. all the while - art.
massive oils depicting a buxom women lounging on a black sofa with a cat crawling across her hefty thigh, across from a huge paghan canvas upon which various symbols weave together, the walls covered. it's almost to much to take in.
on the first landing - a surprise. a chair of mine sits next to a table with vintage playboys. this chair was supposed to be a project of angela's & mine, but we lost interest and i told her to find it a good home. here is resides.
i got in trouble for carving the name "wood" in that chair when i was 16. funny.
i am slightly honored that the chair lives here. cool.
2 more flights of stairs take us thru dave's actual office where cigar smoke lies thick & lovely like a favorite quilt. some of my favorite art is in this room, beautiful art boxes with windows to other worlds, tribal masks, a new large oil of a naked women in a sweeping red hat adorns an entire wall.
we walk outside- crossing a small black railed bridge to an open door - 1940's jazz emanates from within & low lights beckon .... 
walking into the first room, there is small black bar on your left with tiny lights lining the top, behind which a lacily dressed mannequin offers her hand .... various bottles of booze & wine litter the end of the bar. illumination from numerous glowing art pieces pop about this diminutive room. some quite odd & nonsensical, others bawdy. ... along the right wall is this fantastic surreal canvas, 4' by 4' - a recreation Dave has done of Pieter Brugel's Dutch Proverbs ... a village of naked women reside here in gold & brown. dave painted this years ago, and somewhere in this metamorphosis of a home, there is list of them all. 
( if your very drunk, if is is riotous fun to see how many you can find...)
you step into a parlor on your right and lights are a bit brighter here, where some 60 black & white nudes adorn the walls. again various unmatched pieces of furniture . above the door is a small sign - serving those who serve those who serve.....
next to each sofa are dave's notebooks, where he has taken vintage penthouse & playboys and re-assembled them into political-comments & commercial parodies : cutting & pasting, - collaging volumes. 
the room is relaxing, again one smells cigar lingering here, and impatience.
an ashtray you would find in your grandpa's house, sits there on the broken wooden coffee table with a cigarette just lying there anticipating the unknown...
across the room from the old brocade sofa, is a sink. for washing prior to one's visit i suppose. the entrance to the rooms lies straight ahead - and it appears as a tunnel of scarlet, softly glowing as if it's has a beating heart - a slow, beating heart.
you walk thru the narrow door-frame into a branched hallway - small & tight, you have 4 directions to explore. then you stop, realizing the hallway itself is a room. painted a deep red, it is shrouded portraits of women: gorgeous & enchanting - some pastel with air-brushed perfection, some in harsh detail yet winsome & bewitching. never will i convey the sheer extent of the art itself. staggering. 
you take a sharp right into the bathroom - a naked mannequin stands behind the beige & pink shower curtain, holding out her red lace panties to you. rubber wellingtons stand at the sink, as if some soldier just vaporized back to normandy,leaving a sprig of daisies poking out the top.... there are remnants of life everywhere : tooth paste, again from another time, glasses .... various sundries. 
art conceals the wall - oils & charcoals predominately. most of the women are complacent & poised, some a hint of sadness lingers.... all lending to such an aesthetic of allure & forgotten glamour.
heading out of the bathroom, straight ahead is a dressing room, or undressing room a small dangling sign reads.... a clothing rack hold numerous vintage clothing options for your standard lady of the night, gowns, robes, dresses with a dresser holding powder puffs and jewelry scattered about with some small measure of organization....
stepping out of that space - there are two bedrooms before you ...
the one on the left ..... an ugly table lamp blazes red from below the street window - edith piaf plays from the antique record player. a small half-made twin bed cuddles into the corner, bedding turned down .... around the room lies neglected treasures from a life: purse's, cigarette cases, jewelry and makeup - lots of makeup.
open and used - that's what it smells like in this room - makeup ... a past.
there is old floral wallpaper drifting from the chunks of plaster, enabling again, the art to rule the room. it's more of the same, by this time - overwhelming.
women posed on concrete pillars, women laying on beds - the colors, though all different, astoundingly blend and swirl together it seems, creating a feeling of warmth & entombed desire.
the last bedroom is distinguished by the raggedy ann doll on the full sized bed. a clean quilt covers the bed, over which women look down from their various frames, some gilt, some bleached wood, scratched & re-used .... re-invented to create this life-sized shadow box of a brothel. browns dominate this room, shades, tints and textures in the canvases. the smooth floral carpet underfoot has an almost hollywood elegance to it, and then you notice how worn it is - how thin & delicate.
it's hard to leave. withdrawing, one just keeps contemplating & observing - almost expecting one of these masterly created women of pencil & oil to turn her chic expression and watch you. 
... trying to entice you back,
to linger & admire once again - these goddesses from another time.
thin, thick, bold or faded - they seem to celebrate companionship.
...and take delight in your gaze....
anticipating the next visit to the burlington rooms.

Sunday, April 3, 2011


ode to the broken key
ode to the warm laurel night
love doesn't land for free
open hearts pay the tinker's price
sweet pancake morning of the rolling hills
tumbling into the brightness of the light
smoke & shadow defeat our fears
maybe this time we'll get it right

unlock my song
untie these chains
feed my soul
on candles, weed & rain
pull off your jeans
grab my hand
you & i are the promised land ,,,,

moments & our melt shine on
far into songs long past
red apples taste like your soul
fire flares as demons gig fast
carve out a hole in my heart
carve it up & place it in the sun
for home is plucked by the lark
and this comet-night belongs to one

ode to the broken key
ode to the warm laurel night
love didn't come for free
our hearts paid the minstrel's price
break my will
fill my heart
love me still
and sing with the lark
carry me away
take my hand
you & i are the promised land .......

twilight repair

carnival cowboys shadowed against the orange wall
striding in worth & draped in blemished rye
with your honey-blood tattoo ....
toss me up and hold me there
reluctant to share the indigo blue of night
stubborn in intellect & aquavit
break out and see the blue as blue
the night as night
not this oppressive tangent to the consumptive pressure of
weight & bed-bugged-ego
turn down the lights, turn down the sheets
play jazz at 8 o'clock while consulting twister, tarot & ouiji boards
coolness is leaked from your seams
in mercury & turquoise
repaired with a cord woven of regret & heartache
now ....
sing to me with the smell of barley & indigo rising
sing to me with textures of whiskey-pebbled rivers & fallow fields
sing to me of self, risk, love & healing
this faltered self into gamma-compressed-tangerine-twilight
swing your partner &
ride the dusty carousel pony
oh carnival cowboy ...
yippee ki-yay  !!
brilliantly worthy of the stride & toss
the stride & toss of this amber-resined moment , , ,