1078 ART SHOW

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!

playful dust bowls

wolfgar

SHE

plants a seed in your soil

and waits

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

she insists

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.

luxury

the million bodied progenitor of life’s impregnating prodigy

the one

inside of each blossoming word which dances from his tongue

like fireflies.

 

the proof is catalyzed by the light filled caverns which implode within your minds ever expanding eye.

the matador

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,

so what,

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.

blink

 

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

dragon empress.

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.

strange.

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.

 

 

30 FOOT TALL PAPER DOLL

snake

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.

in fact

not one ounce of her content is flesh,

she was pulpy

and wet

now she’s just stiff

and easily crinkled

bordering frail

not a bad deal though

if your planning on eating her

and rolling her into little

balls

to throw at your friends

 

passageways

restricted by alien beings

which i ingest

happily

the ends becoming the means

the first spark

igniting your long forgotten

fire friends

some call them beasts

a label i’ve come to love.

a table

set for two,

so we sit,

and read poetry

simultaneously

our skills

honed so delicately

we give

and take

listening while telling

telling while listening

tales

your words

ignite my own

and my own become instant feedback

retreat, attack, retreat, attack

purpose

drops away like happily falling rain

free

as unbraziered breasts

tasting the breath

as you slowly inhale

pausing

before the next

which inevitably comes

draped over the

uncalculating day

ink stained sheets

eyes meeting again,

“this is the best”

you relate as i

absorb sugar coated

delivery callibrated

perfectly

in millions of colors

drool drips daintily

from bottom lip

you lunge to catch

and sip

hungrily

teasing pool swirls on tongue

creatures, every last one

from start to finish we open their

cold adult eyes like dennis the menace.

this one

true love

is a festival of the senses

one that never ends with the corporealy

clouded chaos of a

complete sentence

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

again

regress into nothingess.

regress, then slink

like worm

inch by inch

to the place where sanity supposedly sits

but the closer you get

the less sane she seems

she

shooting appropriatley proportioned poisened arrows

into your constantly opening heart.

hmmmmmmmmmm

a good place to start

it seems, so you begin

again

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

so demanding

yet rewarding- you fall to the floor

and beg- eyes ignite words become

dancing blurs

that evaporate from human site

tempting

tall tale teller

tempting, but,  lasting forever?

question

then violin woman steps to stage

quelling urges

she

4 feet tall in platformed heels

too slowly

bloom

blossoming into dr. suess statue

i worship this

beast

empty ego

cease

empty memories

release

sit on stage

set up stand

fragrant flowers explode

in untainted nose.

New ART & a POME

Good Boy!

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

phantasmagorical delusions

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.

Now,

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,

divinely proficient

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?

Now,

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,

only NOW

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.

 

Closing Reception for MAHAKALA!

mahakala_web

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

dragon

KEEP CHICO WEIRD

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:

 

keepchicoweird@gmail.com

 

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, IT CAN SAVE YOUR LIFE

enshandont

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?

reply

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?

and yet,

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.