25x30" oil stick on card stock

 

poem

 (untitled)

When art is meant to

not only adorn,

but complete existence;

when it’s there to raise

more than just entertainment;

when it’s been a good

quarter century

of being rubbed out

by millions of contracts;

when being an artist

in full

can easily

be deadly

if still

alive.

9x12" asemic art

19x24" pastel/ink abstraction

poem

(untitled)

If it’s ‘ignorance
is bliss,’ through
and through,
all the way
to the end,
then I guess it’s true
no one could
have ever
liked this
trick—
though I did—
difficult
as it’s been.

poem

 (untitled)

Just pretend my face has been burned

in a fire of finding out;

just pretend my ugliness

has been for what

happens when the

truth is as important

as life itself.

acrylic abstraction/ orientation 2

20x28" acrylic abstract on museum board

poem

 (untitled)

(untitled)

When everything becomes an argument,

and no matter how right, is still wrong;

when argument is still love for truth,

expressed and manifest;

the fight to get humans through

to more hope down the road.

When all existence is a narrative

where events occur,

leaving the players

to concur or not;

leaving each spirit

in proximity

a choice

to turn away

or take the path

of the free.

19x24" abstraction

 

poem

 (untitled)

Just don't shoot me in the head,

if you please,

that will ruin it;

I'd rather die by body shots;

the last mortal thoughts this time

about how beautiful it's been.

poem

(untitled)

Dead or alive,

I shall keep

my spirit

with the free.

poem

 (untitled)

I wish you would see me,

and not necessarily physically,

although that would be the

most thrilling;

the accomplishments over years

and why they still matter today;

perhaps they’d thrill you too,

but in this day and age

and moment of history,

more likely they’d make you run away.

I wish you’d see me;

obsessed with truth and beauty

for hundreds and hundreds of months

on end is unusual; sometimes it’s obvious,

but mostly the result is unseen,

a gentle regime.

poem

 (untitled)

When everyone has learned to view you

as the uncaged animal in town—

when everyone knows you

and you don’t know nobody;

when they’ll talk and bond

over your legend for

hours on end while

flinching at the notion

for a visit to see first hand—

where you’re Macbeth’s last fear—

staked to a pole for the zombies

to marvel at.

It’s kind of cool

in a way—takes guts,

but kind of commendable

in such a day and age.

carbon/bristol

carbon/bristol

carbon/bristol

carbon/bristol

9x12" carbon/bristol

fragment

(fragment)

What’s it like;

what’s it like,

when they all

hope to wake,

hearing you’re dead? 

poem

(untitled)

Where am I again?

Oh, beautiful Earth—

gratitude, gratitude, gratitude;

where to love the mountains, oceans, and trees

and everything else,

is to love the way they capture Sun;

a love of the two.

poem

 (untitled)

There have been kings and queens

dating back to when the gods

conferred sovereignty on them;

those they knew had the heart

to administer to the creation;

those born on not just another day;

those who if crossed

could make a stupid monkey dead;

those they spun like a top

to see where they

wandered across the table;

an entertainment

going on

this very day.

poem

(untitled)

At times it appeared to be working,

fingering a braille of the imagination—

a language of intuition

scarcely to be explained

was a navigation of intangibility:

like manning a helm on a moonless night

over an unforgiving sea;

while everyone turned away as if you were crazy,

as you struggled with waves of doubt too;

but stayed the course in case it was true

it was making a difference;

you carried it through—

had to choose risking the love of a muse

for saving a way of knowing;

steadfast, awaiting conclusive proof

you could dismiss the notion at last;

to rejoin the pursuit of all that’s natural,

away from storms over dark seas

into the smooth arms of joy

and light in her eyes.

poem

 (untitled) 

Most say Aristotle said it first

though it was an African proverb

for ages before he took his

initial breath: those who

speak the truth have no friends.

The fate of the poet,

artist, and scientist alike

is to suffer this

as the wheel of the world

rolls into the future,

as if it’s a game

of who can get closest

without getting caught;

sure to having plenty of enemies;

and when they can’t kill you,

simply live with the understanding

of a sentiment

spoken again and again

down through the ages.

Quote

 Due to concerning circumstance I sought my dog-eared copy of teachings by my favorite teacher; flipping randomly to highlighted passages was this, a timely reminder: "Never value anything as profitable to ourselves which shall compel us to break our promise, to lose our self-respect, to hate anyone, to suspect, to curse, to act the hypocrite, to desire anything which needs walls and curtains: for we who prefer to everything else our own intelligence and spirit in the worship of its excellence acts no tragic part, does not groan, will not need either solitude or much company, but chief of all will live without either pursuing or flying from death; whether for a longer or shorter time we have our spirit enclosed in a body, we care not at all: for even if we must depart immediately, we will go as readily as if going to anything which can be done with decency and order. Take care of this only all through life, that our thoughts not turn away from anything which belongs to an intelligent animal and member of a community." --Marcus Aurelius

Video

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_mTMMCtjwA

old tree on the Gaviota coast