Hope You Burn in Hell

Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei-what kind of sick fucking monsters are you? Who would do something like this for fun? for FUN? I hope someone ass-rapes the both of you in jail. And now some really wonderful gay person with a talent for music is dead. I hope you're fucking happy-fuck you! fuck you! fuck you! rot in hell!

Beautiful Creatures - Tweed

He looks very regal in his posture and I love the heroic pose I captured.

Yeah, its too hot to sleep. We're all up...roaming around the house looking worn out and overheated so I thought I'd do what I normally do when I need to do SOMETHING on autopilot and took pictures.

A Single Thought

standing overture
overnight sensation
plays can close in half a week
won't close down
on you.

<3

Alegory for Alex Grey

glass
shattering into
encased stone
far a field in flame
scattering like a shield
or a sea of stars
in a field of fire.

Time (redux)

Might and beautiful
he held out his hand
like Beauxillious griffins
stolen during Belgian wars
skipping through the
vast quarters
but like all grand
things, once removed
from use by age
or indifference
taken away from its
important place
even monuments
are just stone.
Over time everything
becomes something else
becomes another part of itself
or totally different.
the inference is to time
atoms never see
a clock ticking.

Bob Saves

no action
without consequences
no fairy tale theater
of the absurd
no white picket fences
you have to look hard
while choking on the
dust and the smoke
to see her...

daylight through
the bubbles
is amazing
but I'm crazy
making up trouble
trying to get to you.

swing your purse
or drive a hearse
the mirror will continue
to laugh.
you get old
lots of junk on account
pay for the past
with a dried up future
you have to sing in
the gale force winds
to see her...

I'm behind the waterfall
hiding in my cynics cloak
where its wet and cold
and I'm told
no one ever comes.
but you,
you part the skies
devastate the waves
don't believe in god
but Bob Saves.

Concept Sketches For The Other Place

Working on some larger ideas these days (can't fill up those big gallery walls with 11 x 17 images)and for that I sometimes do these rough outs to help keep the idea and eventual execution sharp in my mind. Lord knows there is a heap o'fuzziness in there!

Corrosive Agent / 73

another layer peels away
and I am me again.
which one this time
will I become
a shadow on the
mouth of the
fourth moon...

no...

Blues For The Divine Flesh (in 3 parts)

chasing sensation
the notion
of floating
across cities
escaping
what's left of
your imagination
suddenly
a bright light catches
your eye
and you're
hoping that this
flight gives you
the truth.

-------------------

castigating wretchedness
amongst scores
of butchers
hooks, crooked
in tandem with the
dreams of
the damned
sides of bacon and ham
and the last tiny voices
of an animal's
death rattle
and cry
the elixir against
the unknowable,
the toast to all
trapped animals
small pens
like us
trying to escape
but running in place
those forgotten faces
the final solution
of the master race.

--------------------

and its
transitory
50 is the
new forty
a shortage
of exploratory
courdoroy rivers
racing across
acres of tundra
wonderful mountains
caught up in wales
and the winds
of this beautiful
august.

we only wanted the stars

I don't have names for all the colors in the sky
I'm high as this dream will fly
over golden bridges and
azure dawns
saw gold.
missed a flash of green
but saw fireworks
behind your eyes

we've skipped through the park
squeezed ourselves
through a hole in the fence

all you ever wanted
was everything
all you ever got was told
get up
sit up
elbows off the table
there's no love
cause they weren't able.


no rules
you're a fool
to love someone
with a mind so cluttered
dying light
fading starter
warped copy of 'get carter'.
highway 101
high way off the map
mishap in san diego
let all the condors loose

Love in the Moonlight

Two statues
for years
on pedestals in a park.
on permanent parade.
110 in the shade
days go on
and on the same,
the seasons revolve
around the two of them.
like flowers around
the sun
no heliotrophic action
for all the stillness
of nature
to be undone.
How history passes
them by
corrosion grows
through their
eyes.
no need for faith
even if the
seas rise.
They stare
at one another
ever steady
in any weather
white and chalk
and green and gray
until one night
when lightning strikes
animated arms
and shields and books
wrestle free
amongst the trees
joints creak
and burst,
silent cement
speaks its first
across the years
one thing sears
memory; thirst.
To hold
to stroll,
don't know how long
we have freedom,
we may not
travel to foreign lands
but at least we can each
if just across
the park,
hold hands.

(In the morning, both statues have returned to their former positions, resting atop their pedestals. But for the faint scratches and brushed off moss, did they move at all? No one knows what happened that night in the park.)

Non Vageries

you
become waves
inside waves
of pleasure.
waterfalls,
endless streets
beautiful trees
even the bugs
in the ground
are treasure
(you'll see)
when you're
around.

Bobolicious

should the world
fail to fall apart
goblins foiled
running havoc
halted and faltering
in the windswept
plains of battle.

You, there
in the rising smoke
and steam,
like a gleam
through a prism
your beam
shines through
demons,
tears that cut
like shards of glass
too many points
of light
for one person
normally to have.

Going Where The Eye Can't See

Phrasology

I am well aware that my writing has a cyclical, repetitive nature. That I repeat certain phrases, terms and vocabulary over and over again, or by variation. When I was a younger writer, just starting out it bothered me when I did it. I(wrongly)thought it meant I couldn't think of anything new-or worse that I was copying myself. It was only later I came to understand how it fit into being an artist- if Turner could use the same blues in his skies, Tchaikovsky and Debussy could repeat phrases, then as the song says - "why oh why, can't I?"

I have come to a place in my life as an adult writer where I am less worried about the exact words than their color, or the feeling they evoke, the flow. Sometimes I nail them, other times I find them through tremendous fumbling. Most of the time I write-because I have to-in one large gallop from start to finish. I think it kind of precludes me writing a novel-I could never maintain one emotional arc or mechanical linear idea for too long. A script maybe if I had help. Lets just say you are unlikely to hear about the 'great' American novel I've been pounding away at all these years-poetry is a different story. Probably going to need help with any autobiography too. I'll have to talk it out. Hope those tapes never surface!

My stories come out as chaotic, fragmented overly emotional, often cerebral in nature. Sometimes its an overwhelming surrender to joy-my music reviews often have this quality-but get me on to personal subjects and things tip inwards and to darkness. I can't help it. The phasers have always been set to stun. I don't want to kill anyone but I want them to take an emotional response away.

I write because I often have to-and always have, but I'm not worried about the Booker prize or being on the list of great American writers. I'm neither when I think on it. I guess I would categorize myself as a world citizen with a European bent. Its like being able to breathe. words come out when you exhale but you can sing(with some training) while breathing IN. I think that is where my writing works for me-you take things in and blend them in a concoction all your own.

and hope you don't poison anyone, at least.

Balled of Sexual Dependency (Modern Boredom)

perpetuate
your self loathing
hatred for the
one inside your
clothing.
another suck,
cheap fuck
12 bucks
and back
to where
you came
like last time
the same
the endless cycle
the dry
trickle of manhood
your sham
scamming your own
self worth.
no names or
nameless faces.
excluding certain races
he'll call you nigger
brag about your
cock being bigger
won't talk to you on
the street
but behind closed
doors longs to
eat your meat,
be the bag,
the holder,
meaningless
receptacle
reptile skin
unprotected skin
hedonist thinks
his lawlessness
protects him.
liar, swindler
filthy riches
of avarice
in practice
but the price
paid for moments
in paradise
not so nice
dwindling down
to some cheap
tchotchis for some
grandma in Philly
its silly
how you waste your time
your crime
is boredom
the whore
of Babylon
the sex goes on and on
the television
comforts you with
its song
but you're all alone
that's the truth of it
once the men have
gone.

Salty-tures

Pretty-tures

Picky-tures

Tidbits II

lets dance
on dazzle ships
attack ships
fly by night
suggesting travel
on a lunar eclipse,
solar landscapes
entranced.

My Little Problem

one look in
my eyes
abandoned in the soft
gold afternoon light
cruel clocks crackle
estranged by distance
like arabian horses
trampling and dancing
on the edge of deserts.
the strength of days
depleted the same
way as the moon.
A sudden flash
the strike of a match
and the fire starts
all over again
every time
I look in
your eyes.

you own the welcome mat to my heart

to keep you safe
from all harm
from storms
from the pains
of childhood
remorse, guilt
lovelessness
and anger
madness is no stranger
and yet a kind
heart beats
but trouble weighs
heavy on
hard worn souls.
to keep you safe
from all pain
walk a thousand miles
to save one drop
of blood
to hold you close
to feel your warmth
keep a close watch
on your heart