I have a solo show coming up at the 1078 titled:
MAHAKALA : Guardian of the Temple
New and retrospective work
it runs from January 7-23 with a reception on Thursday 21 from 6-9pm
come check it out I will be giving MAJOR deals on art sales!
plants a seed in your soil
she smiles at the endless dreams on which your
waking world breaks.
time and again the fuzz builds
on your living room floor
spinning in vortextural dances
trying to taste a touch of the self animate.
and there you stand
against all odds, an antagonist for the indecisive
drenched in high fructose corn sentences
you will your limbs to do the motion they’ve always done
arm swing forward, opposite foot forward,
but nothing, and nothing but dire uncertainty
turning soiled as well as unsoiled particulars
into playful dust bowls which momentarily cloud your vision.
persistence, persistence, persistance.
right, my response,
further investigatory analyses seeming utterly useless i regress.
tackle me, i scream
I have the ball of nothingness
capture my flag and follow me down the rabbit hole of eternity
the gate which, when opened creates the stream of life affirming
uncertainty that presses each of us into the perfect vessels
for human reflection.
pre-supposing, however, the dynamite laden mine fields over
which we float.
He’ll never go down, big belly and all beaming eyes
drinking Budweiser, telling tales of gratefulness for each day
on this, his seventy first birthday.
rich, in that substance which easily produces heart felt smiles
genuinely caressing with words.
solidly shaven, satisfactorily quantifying the yes moments which
the days events produce in his heart
he is a hunter
the one who pursues and unceasingly squeezes
out the glory in each ones valiant struggle
the strategist, the publisher, the drunken rebel rousing indescriminate
citizen of the underworld
the one who walks on water, who jumps from stone to stone,
up streams of memories vibrant living forests.
the questioner, the tidal riding sea monster of your eternally waking day dreams.
incalculable, the 30 second syllable who’s tone denotes the inevitable arrival of your filled pleasure craft.
the million bodied progenitor of life’s impregnating prodigy
inside of each blossoming word which dances from his tongue
the proof is catalyzed by the light filled caverns which implode within your minds ever expanding eye.
the purposefully uncapitalized letters of your carefully composed nightingale inspired manifesto.
he talks to much.
you dream of her.
your own personal genie, the magic queen who’s every move leaves you wondering.
how can this be? you muse.
retractable blades and long slender rectangular swaths of thick green grass
layer brick like upon the raw dusty earth
instant signs of life
hovering, wondering at such a sudden change, never the less entering the newly drawn lush green labyrinth.
The international stratosphere portal is opened to all possibilities,
you sit with nothing in your mind but the desire to connect the timeless effervescence from which you’ve come,
the little bird flies
the chirping is so delicate and precise as to arouse the suspicion as the possibility of it being an alien impostor
improbable and yet…
the stories validity gains moment as the tip of your swinging pick axe keeps striking solid rock,
jarring, an insurmountable task, which continuously draws you back to your small carpet on which you daily meditate
wishing to untangle the knot filled ball of circumstantial elements you’ve come to know as “your life”.
and yet, there is always a time for looney tunes.
a time to tune your channel to the stream of eternally knee jerking banter
the peanut gallery of gods delight in the uselessness of it all,
I am the revelation, I am porky pig, the road runner
i am trapped in the bottom of the well, with all the time in the world to dispel
the inadequacies which have grown as bars around my earthly cage
as restricting thought forms around this spinning turquoise sphere of life.
she’s unformalizing the structures of this carnage happy convolution called humanity.
she’s sinking her teeth deep into the pits of your hearts calm and hungry caverns,
to give you glimpses of how good it can be to give,
as she does. the center of all grace within each being, your own personal
she pushes the “sit down, shut up and listen right now button whenever your tempted
to judge, categorize or critique the essence of any other of her children.
But herself is easy to love. as tame as a tidal wave
drunk on pirate punch her antics circulate like sirens of revolution
through the panda party palisades of yesterdays dynamic recollections.
its uncertain where to place your left hand,
on blue, right hand yellow, left foot green, right foot in mouth and munching until devouring entire self
just in time to reintegrate, to contemplate, and recreate this little light of mine.
The cohesion clouds have scattered, taken up hawking mats and strode magically across the desert floors
in all directions.
she is red
30 feet tall
a paper doll
my paper doll
i call her brenda
but everybody else calls her chopstick.
she’s better than any steak
you could eat.
not one ounce of her content is flesh,
she was pulpy
now she’s just stiff
and easily crinkled
not a bad deal though
if your planning on eating her
and rolling her into little
to throw at your friends
restricted by alien beings
which i ingest
the ends becoming the means
the first spark
igniting your long forgotten
some call them beasts
a label i’ve come to love.
set for two,
so we sit,
and read poetry
honed so delicately
listening while telling
telling while listening
ignite my own
and my own become instant feedback
retreat, attack, retreat, attack
drops away like happily falling rain
as unbraziered breasts
tasting the breath
as you slowly inhale
before the next
which inevitably comes
draped over the
ink stained sheets
eyes meeting again,
“this is the best”
you relate as i
absorb sugar coated
in millions of colors
drool drips daintily
from bottom lip
you lunge to catch
teasing pool swirls on tongue
creatures, every last one
from start to finish we open their
cold adult eyes like dennis the menace.
is a festival of the senses
one that never ends with the corporealy
clouded chaos of a
take these pills, and don’t call me in the morning
stay up all night
and write nonsense until you pen hand is bleeding
ever injecting mind boggeling mystery called air
can you stand?
30 feet tall
and hold your antane like arms to the heavenly abyss?
tricked like gilligain
regress into nothingess.
regress, then slink
inch by inch
to the place where sanity supposedly sits
but the closer you get
the less sane she seems
shooting appropriatley proportioned poisened arrows
into your constantly opening heart.
a good place to start
it seems, so you begin
this time it is you who falls
from rain cloud
absorbing into chocolatey soil
giving roots the mystery called water
blank blank strut stride emit noise glitch
go ahead trick me pwease
if it eases tired legs
yet rewarding- you fall to the floor
and beg- eyes ignite words become
that evaporate from human site
tall tale teller
tempting, but, lasting forever?
then violin woman steps to stage
4 feet tall in platformed heels
blossoming into dr. suess statue
i worship this
sit on stage
set up stand
fragrant flowers explode
in untainted nose.
A letter from son to father
He’s given his heart back to it’s rightful owner
Now, ALL of his tools are in working order.
His white light is no longer truncated into strange
He is neither royally grand nor worthlessly insignificant.
Now, he perceives your love directly.
He understands you as the true son that you are.
There is no longer the Bandying about over the words
because he no longer speaks in THAT way.
He speaks in the spirit
which you’ve always longed for him to speak.
The temptation to triumph over natural forces pisses on him,
because those forces now rule him.
His body has changed into an elemental time card
punching in and out at will, there is only TRUE work,
without the physical delusion of beginning and ending.
He’s making amends in ways never before dreamed of.
He used to pass through that particular spot in the park,
where the giant oak tree shadowed the meadow just so,
the river, carrying the vines of the blackberry on it’s back.
The spot where wayfarers were forced to stop and contemplate.
He used to wonder what the big deal was, what was it about that spot?
Why did it make them stop? Why did HE feel the need to stop?
in his current vehicle, the one he’s come to refer to as the “light offering kaleidoscope of transe-edification”, he spends a great amount of time here,
He is the one pollinating the flowers
He has become one of the little ones
The joyful little builders of the vortex,
which captures those bound to the marrow.
He’s giving you the gifts, he’s always longed to give you, but never knew how.
He speaks to you through the redeeming realities which spring forth
into your memories of him.
His light, in you
has become an incontrovertible beam
an absolutely integral part of the spanning bridge.
His voice in you
has allowed you to become
the true son, you know yourself to be.
The show has been a great success. I’m super excited that people have been into these “dragon masks” cause i’ve been LOVING making them and will continue to do so.
Hope to see you at the opening, In light all-ways
Call for submissions: Keep Chico Weird Talent Show!
Calling all performing artists, sword swallowers, musicians, mimes, whistlers, thespians, magicians, competitive eaters, ballerinas, Olympic curlers, contortionists, one-man bands, mind readers, chainsaw jugglers, spelling-bee champs, interpretive dancers, slam poets, organ grinders and everyone else with a talent for keeping Chico weird … the Chico News & Review wants to put you on stage for the Keep Chico Weird Talent Show!
Performers of every style are eligible to participate (visual artists, too, for the Weird Gallery in the lobby). Must be 18-over.
Email a description of your act (and if you’ve got ’em, include photos, videos and/or audio samples, and any pertinent Internet links), or a photo of your art, plus contact information, and the names and ages of everyone in your act to:
Or mail to: Chico News & Review (attn. Keep Chico Weird), 353 E. Second St., Chico, CA 95928
Deadline for submissions is Thursday, Jan. 9. Selected entrants will be notified the following week.
And find us on Facebook at: http://www.facebook.com/keepchicoweird
MAKE ART TODAY!
A POME 4 U
Pray tell sheep messenger
what sad and slippery pin pricks
lay in wait underneath my underworld shower cap?
can, do you not, to tell, tale by tales length parting?
be missed, yet seeds automatically planting
timing perfect, within cycling seasonal coordination.
facts mingled with fairy tales
and misconstrued magistrates responding with nods and giggles.
I’ve no bones for killing
every time their black and bright red specked bodies smash
beneath my death wielding device
I shed a tear inside
Every time, I look to creator & tremble asking forgiveness,
knowing, in the act of asking, it is given.
always inner eyes be not blind to cultures howling wolves,
giving space, hollowing out holes,
in which new paradigm may burrow
to sprout anew and push forth once more
that which must present herself as truth
and truth she’s is and speaks.
Standing in the middle of your pulsing heart,
wearing her shimmering brilliant white wedding gown,
which spills out bravely in all directions.
In my dreams, I take up residence
in black widows body,
I am smashed a million times, by a million frightened humans.
but upon the instant of my death
I awaken in the soft and silken web
of my mothers making,
seeing the eyes of my brothers
and sisters, yearning for the taste of my first kill.
There is no satisfaction in ti,
it is what i must do, who i am,
there is no sorrow in my death.
She sitting in hearts central chamber,
pleading with me, asking for my eyes to sparkle
with the special light, where her body
touches the sun.
to tattoo her transformational hymns on the walls
of each and every blood vessel within my being,
that i might spill out, even minutely, a trickle of the majesty
of what she creates within.
There should be no sorrow in it.
is it not what i am?
as i go to close my journal, there on the edge of page, crawling is tiniest red spider
i pause, not wanting to crush.
and so the book stays open, now unslinging
battle axe of divine inner mistress once more
my pen attacks and scratches parchment,
as on papyrus, as on wood, as on stone,
in days long past, the same quest calling,
how to articulate this love giving energy
that douses through me, into forms, words,
that might be heard, felt, recognized
and made law within the hearts of all who
wear this human skin.
how to plant kisses within each heart
who’s seeds might grow into beautiful
unconditionally loving smiles
on the lips of each soul sister and brother.
a dream worth living for, worth dying for,
so she whispers, as I awaken again
wrapped in the etheric white feathers
of her eternally expanding tantric temple.
blessed with the burden of her living grace.