love, life and everything

Screenprint Anatomy

Thu, 18 Oct 2012 17:36:00 -0400

They’re painting that screen red

and in the blue light

we can over-expose our hearts

through acetate with lines bright as black.

Lay there, get buried in ink,

I’ll just flood myself

right on the silk sounding like a scratch,

let it sweat through our bitmap faces

and hit that pulp like a fist.

In the claustrophobia of the sink

I’ll dilute the blood in your veins

and we can de-emulse ourselves

in that spray of toxic and chemicals

in a mist down the drain.

We’ll paint our walls with water so we can lay on sand all day, and watch the waves of the...

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 22:49:00 -0400

We’ll paint our walls with water

so we can lay on sand all day,

and watch the waves

of the wallpaper flowers.

We’ll sculpt our hearts in paper

so we can feel them beat

in our chiseled hands,

and hear them laugh through our teeth.

We’ll swim in each other’s veins

but we can feel a leak in the bloodstream,

blooming roses on the ocean of our rooms,

and we are slowly losing breath.

In the Acadian afternoon it might just be a dream like Cleopatra on a canvas, and like drips from a...

Sat, 07 Jul 2012 21:35:32 -0400

In the Acadian afternoon

it might just be a dream

like Cleopatra on a canvas,

and like drips from a paintbrush,

on the wooden floor.

Weeping fish

Thu, 10 May 2012 18:44:46 -0400

The weeping flying fish

tells the seagull,

“Stop laughing you make me nervous.”

Darling by Charles Bukowski

Thu, 10 May 2012 17:48:59 -0400

Darling by Charles Bukowski

A few million tangos

Sat, 28 Apr 2012 23:46:54 -0400

He was diagnosed with cancer

and prescribed

one sexy salsa

and a few million tangos.

elephant dumb

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 14:06:05 -0400

I’m sitting in the classroom

with a million of them

elephant dumb

in their plastic chairs.

Ink murder

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 14:05:19 -0400

There’s this young novelist,

in the dark getting strangled

by his typewriter ribbons.

Flood of crazies

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 14:04:00 -0400

We sit around & we scare each other in front of a screen & we stay up for hours talkin’ about the extent of the universe & how I’m actually you & you’re actually me while we crayola around our rooms & think we’re Monet’s children. There’s those crazy girls & they’re laughing through life, we dream of painting films & writing all over Hollywood & we drink wine by the gallon in dark rooms while dancin’ under the covers with each other. We don’t wake up because we never sleep & we play Bob Dylan on a detuned guitar & half a harmonica. We take photographs & photographs & photographs of all of us wearing flowers & looking at the ceiling while listening to the Grateful Dead & we go swimming in pools of smoke full of alcohol in our brains. We’re still young & we know it, we wear denim like there’s no tomorrow & we sing louder & louder till’ people complain. There’s knocks on our doors at 2 a.m lookin’ for a cup of tea & an all night dancing jam & we open the door & the flood of crazies comes in & we uncork cork after cork after cork (gloo gloo gloo) & we start moving all over each other & stumbling to the beat of our lives.

Up 3rd Avenue

Tue, 13 Mar 2012 20:15:29 -0400

We were walking

and it was raining.

The street was filled with people,

some walking fast

and some walking slow.

Somebody yelled, “Taxi”

and a taxi stopped.

Up 3rd avenue

there was a puddle on the ground

and I threw my cigarette at it.

I missed.

Artists (and their blindness)

Sun, 11 Mar 2012 18:27:00 -0400

That morning I went

to the university

with all those people

who think too much of themselves.

I walked on the streets

and avenues,

all dressed up in worn out shoes

and faded denim because it’s cool.

There’s this thing in the air of campuses,

like breathing pretension,

and I like it,

I’m part of it.

The students sit outside

with coffees and smoke,

Double cream and double sugar,

they’re drinking their hypocrisy.

They sip and they talk

about Pollock and their muse,

they think they know Warhol

because they eat Campbell’s.

But when they paint

they’re just pissing on canvases

and they tell you all about it

because it’s poetry for the eye.

They move their hands in their hair

and tell you you should care

because theirs just means so much more

than that painting with your guts all over it.

They think their C’s and D’s

are from being misunderstood,

they’re all struggling with their troubles

and then go home to their parents and silk toilet paper.

They tell you money doesn’t matter

when you’ve got art,

while staring at you

through their million dollar glasses they don’t need.

But they’re just blinding themselves

with their visions of Bohemia

and their bullshit complaints

about capitalism and politicians they see on TV.

And it makes me feel so sorry

because me too I sit and drink my coffee,

and I disagree

for the sake of being an artist.

Hemoglobin Heat

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 17:46:00 -0500

It’s like a fire that’s gotten into my blood,

Like a mute, howling wolf.

I hopped on that bus to get away,

But it’s burning and burning like a pain in my gut.

In the melting sky there’s this sun,

That just won’t fucking set on himself.

Feels like watching a clock (tik tok tik tok)

Going crazy crazy crazy, it’s passed midnight goddamn it.

There’s the sleep like a buzz in-out,

And alcohol in my heart angers my hemoglobin suffocating.

My eyes blinking and flooding blue on themselves,

Looking for a horizon in the sky.

There’s a few clouds (phew phew phew)

White so white they cool my flame.

One, two, three days to sober my muscles,

drunk with anger like whiskey in the heat.

Then the wind blows and I’m blind,

A light bright like a bare bulb in my sad retina.

Damn damn damn I’m sweating red

And I’m breathing carbon in my violent lungs.

I need the night to wake and shine black,

A night to rest and let my chest soften.

Crisscrossin' NYC

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 22:47:00 -0500

The architecture of my mind is shaking like an earthquake;

Trembling and trembling like anxious thrills.

I’m singing to the melody of the open road like car-sick children

“Maman, are we there yet?”

I’ve got my head light as a balloon when I hit the streets;

Streets like dreams (crisscross crisscross)

Dear Jack, and dear Allen, are those your shadows under my feet,

looking of memories like whiskey and nicotine?

Oh dear Neil are you here, and you too Billy,

in those taxis like shooting stars over me?

The ducks are long gone from the park

and the rain is pouring on me like a Dylan blues.

That troubadour inside my heart is playing loudly,

shooting power chords along the ruptured veins of my arms.

Can you hear me out there Jerome David,

in your rye field with your unpublished prose?

I hear the echoes of harmonicas bleeding in the Village

and the strum of guitars spitting poetry.

I can see you across that cold water Bruce,

Dancing in the dark like a hungry night owl.

I can feel all of you in my muscles tighter than sailor knots,

You with your devil may care smiles so loud.

Hayfield girl

Mon, 06 Feb 2012 21:42:23 -0500

With her windy hair

like a bird in the big blue,

And her needle head pupils

like two flakes

On the burnt ground of her eyes,

shaking to the drum of her heart,

She stands in Canadian hayfields

like a lone mountain top tree.

With her wolf-like shadow

she dances a waltz like an angel,

And with her trembling throat

she screams red like the devil.

In that burning air of the West

She fights a war of love and shame.

Photo

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 14:45:03 -0500

Photo

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 14:36:25 -0500

Acadian love

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 14:34:26 -0500

Acadian love

Les grandes personnes

Wed, 01 Feb 2012 15:25:00 -0500

From fluo thoughts of swings

to cold cerebral mechanics.

There’s a storm, flood flood flooding;

A murder up in there.

Draw me a sheep, he says

and so there was a birth in his mind.

And with that fetal electricity

playing god on Asteroid-B 612.

With all flaming sex games

and with bruised lips,

You can write all the words you want

but just with the ashes of the heavy stares.

Then there’s the dreams like mathematics

but where 2+2 always equals 4

And where you can’t ask things like,

“Why do roses have thorns?”

From hand in hand laughter romance

to machinery staccato love

There’s a rain, pour pour pouring;

An eternal washing.

I’d rather be stuck up in a tree than be tied to it.

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 19:43:19 -0500

I’d rather be stuck up in a tree than be tied to it.

Pine kill

Sun, 22 Jan 2012 13:44:00 -0500

The trees breathe to the sound
   of Acadian heartbeats.
The smell of salty waves in the wind
   illuminate blue.
The trembling of air freezing
   in vein roots so deep.
The snow soft sweet and cold
   on fire blooded lips.
The hard touch of wood iced
   speaks whispers of winter madness.
The shiny hits on wrinkled bark
   reflect silver in forests of green.
The circle flesh light as sand grains
   sparks with spills of life.
The warm muscles in dancing forearms
   tense like lions.
The long fall of the giant so tall
   breaks with a sizzling crack.
The silence and the sprinkle
   land together on the ground.
The heavy walk back smells
   of joy in the air.