Changed Status

pretty in pain
muddle in a bottle
ripped stockings for the win
pinned on a weathervane
the finish line is one
revolution away

 

 

 

 

( recent drawings from my  last session)

 

Communique’

just because it speaks doesn’t mean it talks

sometimes talking is simply noise-

but thrown like rope across chasms

 

just because it talks doesn’t mean it speaks

ears dictate  louder than words

and choose like  brides-

 

just because it talks doesn’t mean it talks

the meaning is in the gaps between sky and clouds-

the deserts between feet

 

just because it speaks doesn’t mean it speaks

when the chest is a tunnel filling with  trains

 

just because it speaks doesn’t mean it talks-

like petals missing their mark :

timing is every thing

timing is  nothing

 

 

 

 

( painting in progress…)

 

Survival Of The Fittest

it  is always the impractical, the unnecessary, the less urgent

the things that traffic least with mere survival and the gathering of daily bread

that ultimately bears the imprint of eternity and endless use

 

 

 

( drawings from my last session)

 

Freed-Om

this grain of sand
embedded in a castle wall
waits through suns, calamities and strife
to one day with the tide
roll back and forth
giddily against the shore

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In The Beginning, The End

In the beginning

every facet of the city was undeniable  through a kind of protrusion

like braille

tempting one to become an initiate.

And she was of this city, a suddenly discovered
cul-de-sac, a fenced garden or

a mossy statue erected to commemorate
something forgotten,

discovered on an aimless walk.

She became the question

sussurating in my head, itching to be answered

each possible answer a heaven or hell.

Finally , she became that which I saw

in the corner of my eyes , an oblique presence not to be acknowledged head on

for to do so brazenly , without faith

would melt her into thin air , or worse perhaps,

turn me into stone.

 

-April 10, 2010

 

 

( Drawings from my recent session)

Samsara

this severe horizon
this  liquid shroud -
light that cuts my eyelids like diamond
drives me to my maternal  mountains
its  labial ridges, tresses of shadows and mist

when some rush to the low sands
to seek oblivion
I climb higher, like a Prodigal Son
for forgiveness

 

 

( selection of my drawings from multiple sessions)

 

 

Cover Art

 

my art on the cover of  a book of  poetry  by the talented Rick Mullins to be published this summer :