Monday, April 16, 2012


a murder of crows
gathering bigger and gnarlier birds
One at a time
Taking no cover in a parking lot
Capturing the last glimpse of the day
before the storm rolls through
it is the last drops of water that fall from a broken tap
in the hardpan Tucson earth
sunburned flesh begins to perspire
in a day that never seems to end
vultures gyre silently through the air
like some awkward metaphor
that never seems to hit is mark  

Friday, April 13, 2012


Through the dark LA streets
The rain pooling in the gutters
the slosh of the passing cars
The storm falling back like a coward against the onslaught of the terrain
Out of an art show of spraycans
I jump out into the street
And catch Spout as she leaps over the water filled fissures
“Hold’on to her!” He says. A homeless man in the passing direction,
passing on in the opposite direction
We are just the flak in what must be his crack-laden mind
“Hold’on t’her.” He echoes aloud behind us
Like some midnight sermon to nobody
And were gone like the fading sirens
Were gone like wildfires that burn the Hollywood hills to ash,
We are fucking gone.

I think back to this second often
Late nights where I wake up just before blue hour
Wondering what dreams come
Or if I’m simply sleepwalking
And dreaming of the times where I was last asleep
Thinking on to the nature of letting go. 

Friday, April 6, 2012

color chain

With each stroke, I undo
bringing the work closer and closer to completion
Eventually unravel this spell
Yearning for letters and words that never come
The truth rings through the cracks
I mean nothing to you.
I mean nothing to anyone

And I’ve painted this succession so many times before,
unraveled so many others
casting them into the mausoleum where they exist forever 
and yet, yours remains so complex
so, complicated
so twisted it takes everything I have to remember where I am
but the truth rings through the cracks;
I am alone

And each time I spill these colors
Each passing year that slips away
I undo the spells that have held me, find new ones, and undo those
For the first time I grow tired of who I am
I’m sick of what I’ve become
Agnostic to finishing
the paintings that will evacuate your smell from memory
within each ending the inauguration of the same emotions arises
cowardice keeps me from pushing on