Composition in Black and White (Jazz solos for orchestra)

Notes on Myrrhman

did I mention
this space
your eyes
vertical
ascension
clouds made
of glass
hours pass
I can't pay
anymore attention
captured my heart
the aperture of
my flaws
recorded
step by step
in anethemic
art.

Shake my head
shake my hands
at the floor
I never expected
riches
or to be poor
I already seem
to have it all
to have you
to grab you
by the handle
tip your ideas
over and create
a scandal
in bohemia,
caffinated anemia
coffee stains,
dark teeth in the night
and black sheets
of rain
the depth of my decay
as it pours
wash the ink
like blood
off of stones.

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

white sheets
violins and linen.
white wood
and black blood
compromise
like zebras could
if zebras would
take to you
like I talk
to the moon

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

only halfway
into the onyx woods
the sharp angels
and twisted branches
unsubstantiated
entrench chances
claw at the past
horses ride
ferries slip
into the gash
the river engulfed
laughter and card tricks
and the man who falls
in love with death's daughter
and her kiss
\(unfinished)

Reggie Watts is Muthafucking Genius

Lossless

You're so handsome
I don't care.
like in some
old Hollywood movie.
I stop and stare
You turn your head
what He said?
impossibly
groovy.

Art, Life and Post-modern Ennui

The other night(my birthday actually) I decided to test myself. I've been in a bit of a comfy spot concerning my work. I've developed this mature style of drawing over a period of about 8 years that for lack of a better word, has been dominated by nudes and erotic work. Now, I don't really know how that will translate into mainstream work' that I can make a living at and/or somehow make MORE of a living than I am now. I never needed a focus group to tell me I was good. In some ways I have done exactly what I set out to do-sorry if this sounds a bit Pinnochio-become a REAL artist and actually have other people I don't know buy my work and show appreciation. Now I WILL Go to the Ball!...she exclaimed.



Those are, as any artist knows, ephemeral goals that mean different things at different times in our working life as an artist. What is success, what is 'good' work? You do your best and hope that there is enough 'there' there in ones work to make it worth what you ask for it.

I've reached a point where I have done the things I set out to do as an artist, things I wanted to achieve and, for lack of a better reason, things I also wanted to avoid. Scaling the art world and its dangerously derailing curves has blown one than one artist off path and it has been with tenuous steps that I ever began to show solo. In group shows I was always a standout. My work was often singled out as being the best of the group or at worst, up at the top of a larger group of artists. Finally showing by myself was liberating but scary as hell. Will people 'get' what I am trying to do-when even I have no idea what's going on? Does my work stand alone, does it behave provocatively enough as an idea on (in this case) paper?

Then there is the constant struggle to balance the need to express with actually having SOMETHING to say. No one dances so that others see them dancing, but to dance although they can come together on the best of occasions. Luckily I think I have something to offer, something that IS different. Like all my favorite artists I managed to synthesize something from all my experiences-good and bad-to tell a story no one else can. I know that I am talented but would never say 'how much'. Talent, art and beauty are so subjective I am just trying to do what it is that ONLY I can do. I draw spiders that sing in the corners of my room. I look down at the veins in my arm and imagine a massive delta hundreds of miles wide doused with a blanket of stars-but when I draw it, it comes out as a Manta ray with a man inside interpolated with fins, forked tails, feathers and its all melted together. The spaceship has turned on me...."I'm sorry Dave, I can't let you do that."

The day I turned 38 I decided to test myself and draw "bigger". To see if I could, and the effect it would have on my work. my life is in a different place, as am I. What does my work look like NOW. Right now? Am I a photographer? Am I a fine artist working with traditional mediums? am I a multimedia artist? a writer? a songwriter? and don't even get me started on catagories!!



A craftsman? How to harness all this potential and still have time and money to allow for work to happen naturally-not so totally shoehorned into somewhere it badly fits. I have seen the neurosis of NOT being able to create. Not being able to write music for almost 2 years? Not being to able to make so much as a single guitar strum or single key of piano? fucking christ I don't know how I have managed. There are thousands of songs in my head. thousands. if I could just get them out somehow...somehow.

So what am I? Am I lost or am I like the stars. You see them in the night sky, but the star's light is an illusion-a trick of time-and what we actually see is the compressed energy of the light being shot through space from hundreds of years ago-but we think its right now. It feels like that is what is sometimes happening with my art. I just keep emitting, hoping that somehow in time(not hundreds of years mind you) that someone will see my light, someone who can mentor me and help me figure out how to better wield my flaming sword without chopping my head off or burning the house down.

At least I have a muse....and I'm up for the downstroke. love on ya.

Oh, and I passed the test.

Death In A Rowboat

autumn comes
for the loved and
the loveless ones all
bearing its thorns
its cutting edge
and scorn

Mirrors crack
doorways freeze
spirits rise
too great to erase
trapped like
gas in a corpse,
leaking through to this
universe one soul
to the next.

Emblazoned

a place in
fire
to burn
forever
killer of children
mind thief
no love waiting
no more pain
gestating
you will not
harness their
souls in the afterlife

you will be introduced
to the devourer
of souls
the lone gull
cries
as you gurn
tied to the rocks
like prometheus
flayed.

there is a place in fire
a small black ring
for those who wear
the masks of god.

damned(Be)

better to be dead
better to be damned
than to be forced
to exist
in a no-man's land
separated from
the one thing
we all want
its love...

I don't understand
the way it is
the things have been
truth thrown down a dark hole
I don't know where its been.
built up to who knows where
better to be damned...
better to be dead

Have You

cup for your coffee.
sugar and your cream
once just a dreamer
see inside the dream
have you?

stones in the pathway
darkened under
moonless skies
transition
into what you are
compassion
for the lost
and wandering
star...

Have you?

Cool Gay Ally

Miss New York Claire Buffie. Google her-wow is all I can say. watching her talk makes me burst into tears.

I Am Free

walk 100 miles
in the cold snow
dive over waterfalls
to catch you
climb over mountains
that reach into
the sky just
to reach you
before the day
you only
live in
dreams.
(take me with you, won't you, when you have to go)

Art - Damaged

real paper
and then music
Orange blossom
pathways.
clovers, lavender screened
roses, curling over
green jade seafoam,
waves, petticoats,
palettes and shore birds
calling past,
calling past you
calling situation
nostalgia remains
fragile in
the underbrushed
polygons, stagnant thrones
of past kings
in death throes
cast lights on fountains
remain tragic in concrete
ravaged by entropy
the pecking of birds
pasts winters
acid rain blisters
sinister pictures
with foreign visitors
remand you
to current stage
exit one
option nothing
just damaged
again.

In Another State

play
like somebody
murdered your heart
all the songs
and voices
melodic choices
pulled me right
out of the stars

and all the night
was racing
like horses
and rivers
and slivers
of lights
in the creosote
blackness
where madness
attacks us
it all seems remote
cold fights
and shivering
god gives
the whores
self effacing
wings for flight.

Is the light on?
Are you home?
Its so lonely
when you sleep
alone
close your eyes
angel I won't sleep
'til I find you
the light
in my heart
will burn through
you 'til your gone.

(*Deleted)

I'm 38 Years Old Part IV / Ink & Wash

All shots within a 3.5 minute period. One single 65 watt back reflector and a clip on light from a hardware store. Ansel Adams my ass. Where's MY museum on 4th street?

Bastards....

I'm 38 Years Old Part III / Trees In A Dream

Yo, Don't need cocaine. Already insane, thank you very much.

I'm 38 Years Old Part II / The Visuals

This is my birthday portrait for 2010. rock the fuck out y'all.

Interlude for Heroes

I'm 38 years old

never thought I would be here
or end up here.
couldn't see this
from back there.
I just kept trying
even when I
was on the verge
of giving up.
blind faith
or stupidity,
I can never tell.
Optimist
in a pessimists body
privately obsessed
with pleasing the public
but never satisfied
with myself.
Still shy-hard to trust people.
Has it really been 38 years?
35 since my dad died.
20 since I graduated high school.
10 since I graduated college.
0 in my bank account(mostly).
limitless ideas, restless mind.
still believe that love
changes everything
despite vast
evidence to the contrary.
not that smart,
as it turns out.
but brilliant in
some respects.
respectable(occasionally).
on occasion focused
other times all over the place.
too stuck in chaos
to process myself
out of reason.
How did I get here?
I don't know what I am doing.
its all chance.
its all art
its all music.
there is a soundtrack
playing in my mind.
the psychic shield.
the safe gray area
without walls where
my mind could retreat
shaped everything
gave clarity
in a life spent in
clouds of
self doubt, self loathing
a facade so well
polished.
I could only see everything
and everyone else.
never looking inward(too terrified to, mostly)
trying not to look backwards.
get too lost.
wild goose chases.
car accidents
and leg braces.
straightened teeth
and scarred faces
but smiling still.
still!
I have no idea how I got this far.
I have no grand plan anymore.
realized I was living
to make the plan work
and
not actually living.
The electicity flowed
but the fuses
were all cooked.
didn't learn to cook
for myself.
too stressful.
I just make a mess.
distressing just
making dressing
or reading directions
or reflecting
on what a long strange trip
this has been
and is being
Ladies and Gentlemen
we ARE floating in space
spaceman steve
my spaceship made of art
too feeble to let it all go
should have stopped
some of this long ago
but I slither
away anyway,
another skin, another me.
wonder what 39 will be?
still lots of dreams
blood sweat and tears
I knew it wasn't easy.
I never wanted
an easy life-I wanted a real one.
to open doors.
not be boring.
add smiles.
take away unhappiness
when I can.
still up for it.
not crawling away
tail between my legs
I don't care how long it
takes even if that's forever
I don't care if people don't
like me-only that what I do has
SOME EFFECT
on the world.
not done yet.
not perfect.
still...

Spell Boundary

red reflective
light casts dreams
here in the august night
jasmine sweets the air
chorus and joy and house music
all bursting, flowing, fully deployed.

lined with hallucinations
a million different eyes
greedy hands with
cold hard cash
gold rush
catch
you in a net,
all the brilliant sparks
a thousand
warm elemental colors
gentle in the summers
ever like green leaves
ornament the weather.

Crescents On the Edge of Deserts

desert gasses
rise and
meet the
burgeoning sky,
blue glass, light
heat
trapped in
new mexican winters
sweep the
heartfelt heroes
landing with icy fingered
hands, sanded down
blown flat
and clear...

What color is the space
between what is
and what will never be?
There arn't enough blues
to grace these
places
for all the cerulean
and eggshell
clouds
for all the worlds
cocoa and bittersweet
vapor trails
dithered and diffident
from a high, high place
grasped and swirled
around the vortex
of earth, its guilty
faint breath the
cast off smoke
of dead centuries
in and out
of the starlight
across gridded and golden planes
stratified by diamond hunters
in veins of vanilla lightning
streaking overground brown
earthen reminders, untoward
endless angles on
the dark arcane...

atmospherics divine
oceans from the gas of time
carve waves into halves
and deftly blinded
in the arid nights