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CV
>Paintings
>Sculptures
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poetry
Night, in the Reverie
The milk of these nights is viscous,
and thick with mystique. A
fragrant cloud, a narcotic that
rolls in like muted thunder, fogging
the bathroom mirror, and,
the pane above the kitchen sink.
in a whisper it bleeds through
the crack under the front door,
as it was waiting for us
to invite it in. An opaque voice,
this house guest,
mutters warmth and asks of us
nothing serious.
Campfire
Waxing suspicion
Leads an interrogation
Of this my situation
An alkaline insipidity
Oh Contemporary plunder
Cross eyed at the
gates
In the throat of some
Large happening
I wilt on the edge of the
Prairie
expanding in all terrible directions
Bow legged on
Two blades of yellow grass
Balanced hotly no
Slack in the line
Taught, burrowing descensus
A frown just about right
Who could make this decision
The mesquite taste of
A lapping campfire’s kisses
Or lavender bushels aromatic
Hum from winds away.
My, what a smell.
School Poem 1
Catholic football
fighter jet, and a good
time/fuck. Exploring
connections and being
open to new experiences
of blood pouring out
the mouth guard
shattered a few, too,
teeth, bone and cartilage
lug nut, screw on
looking in the mirror
and feeling
the effects of jumping
from the hot tub to
the pool, deep end.
Receiver. Blue eyes.
Freedom of action.
Right of sensual touch.
Shame then orgasm.
Bashing head on cement,
giving head. Missionary
into a touchdown. Ass.
School Poem 2
Bug spray alcoholic
Milwaukee fracture sweets
pesticide queen.
Candy painted nails
math the car, ants grow
hungry, get a taste for
her.
Marinated in Cola, in a
stainless steel sink.
Ants taking tiny bites
pinch nerve endings
agony in sleep agony
in conversations, her voice
like 180 grit sandpaper.
Pill bugs sanitizer,
vodka soda debit card
pharmacy advertisement model,
laid to rest in a Corolla.
School Poem 3
Water cooler bitters
learned and with gumption
no difference in this fission
then hungry Warsaw yard fights
lawn mower for the carpet
eye protection at lunch
star-bandaged at 7:00 A.M.
sharp.
Microscope bug, sick today
and next week.
Girls get prettier each
month, new teeth.
Science fair butoh,
Seditious principals lug
weights through
car parks. Home room dance floor,
gives me shivers.
As The Lord Spoke
And the good Lord spoke,
in pale fires
and yellow smoke,
'Lay off it, will ya?
Lay off it.'
Shafts of sunlight reach down
from Heaven
like fell wires,
something which compels
doctors to smoke, this
love connection to Heaven,
said God again,
'O desire, resentment, pussy-footin',
thy sword and rucksack,
Lay off it!'
Stiff shoulders in the hustle-bustle
shake like loose teeth on an
exhale,
like asking for permission
like the coo of the Holy Ghost.
Can't hear the rust in your
gray matter with all this traffic!
In our time, you can't let
nothing surprise you.
But the institution cradled in
its own arms rocks itself in a most
unnerving way.
you ever seen
30 suits in their death throes,
dance wildly?
A heard drive off a cliff, a ritual
scheduled on the calendar,
marks the end of the quarter, and
the next
and the next
and the other one too.
Security blanket got no
weight on me! Bastard -
Telegram sent from the office
one floor up.
They got the good life
They got it good up there.
They got it real figured out.
Not on the docket - a transmission
from the highest floor.
And the good Lord spoke,
in pale fires
and yellow smoke,
'Lay off it, will ya?
Lay off it.'
Knew A Folk
Knew a folk
So over his head
Quiet and contentious
Walked down streets
With a wind chime rage
Pulling leaves off of trees
Gas tank guzzling
Windshield wiper sort of
Psyche, brushed one thing
Off onto the other
Walked down streets
And brown stone retreats
Not a gracious
Proclivity I the s lm
Birds in small cities
Hosts of slippage
Out loud vulgar marching
In the treetops among
New summer leaves
As an expensive sun rises.
Both in arm was
A rough site, bad patchwork
For this wicked fixer
Unable to simmer
Blood jacket bomber figure
Runner
Check, runner
Peril in the streets as
Sun whafts in your face,
Potent this month, just
As summer recognizes in itself
A great deal of wariness
To the lot of you and
In a quiet and political way
Elects to retire this season and
Move on
What remains puckers your eyes
By Night, in Rio
An important woman straddles the
cloth debonair. She uses her
bamboo fingers to move the
wet hair from his eyes.
Above, in the loft, angels tune
their violas and piccolos to minor
scales, and toil away at a piece
by Messiaen. A red-eye flight
shreds through the orchestra,
kills first chair. Sick clouds with booming coughs
and sheet music strewn about. All of
this to say, the roads will be
backed up again. Below a leper,
peddler, hugs a corner. Tonight he’s pushing
nothing, selling to nobody. He leans
in a shadow and just observes, fixates
on each passing ass. Dreams of
fishing trips with his grandfather.
The air in the apartment is wet, so
much so, the woman’s shirt clings
to the folds of her skin. He slides
two fingers, then his whole hand
under the heat. Buildings (the first
and only time travelers) relax and
groan in relief. Their pleasure is important,
heavy. The night is heavy. In
a short time the many cranes of the
city will be woken up. Progress
never ceases, only takes
short rests. In similar fashion, a rogue
porter, lulled by the angels,
turns in his sleep. Boots already
laced, there’s two things to be
delivered. A plastic bag filled with
the ocean, and a videotape.
In the film she reveals a soft
underbelly beneath her veneer. It is
a burning love that
envelops her companion. He
decides that he would still like to be
here, smothered, even if he wasn’t
being paid to do so. He’d still enjoy
the city contract or not. The lagoa, the
clay ground. Tonight’s warmth and the
tremolo of tomorrow’s dawn
approaching. A breeze enters through the
window, and cools the now still
sheets. For all the money in the world,
here is a good place to be; or for none of it
the same.
Heaven Sent
When the power cut, and
Our house lights went,
We didn’t even notice,
‘Cause our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
And it rained for a week straight!
Biblically drenched,
Hardly did we wet, for this,
Our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
Oh and when the deluge hushed
So the sun could scream hot!
By God we aint stop,
‘Cause our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
And bleak as it was
Food spoiled, shadowy men,
No espionage wrecked our den,
Our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
Funny how, just yesterday,
Passing through a crowd-
Once again, there, your scent.
Ahhh, just for now,
Heaven sent, Heaven scent.
Kids These Days
Lacking a concept of mortality
the youth learn pathology from
digital tomes. Not dissimilar to
Buddhist rebirth, since code can always
end with a ‘loop’ syntax. This
results in a forever mentality. There is an
indifference to the consequences of life.
Finally, the perfect soldier!
Like damp clothes they fold on the wire.
Weighted, collapsed. So heavy their burden.
There’s no good
music on the radio these days.
dog leg
yeah
okay okay
I can beg. I will
beg for dog leg
humping and
oh, you're so like
rising yeast
doughy and white.
I need to
beg beg
leg hump
dog drools
oh... oh!!
kiss me doldrums!
My own private war
you can't smell it
but i'm burning a
hole through your
hair.
wouldn't ya know,
i've just launched
an assault on your being.
Sam Hill! I'm manning
the artillery against your sensibilities.
at last! your plum, all mine.
Poem for a waitress
In a small voice, ask me,
will this bout, how you spin it,
17,000 odd steps, neck craned, brow furrowed.
Today, warmth like a cooling stove
top, an embarrassing depression.
What’s worse would be an empathetic
feeling towards soldiers.
This day, any actualization will
surely flower results most saccharine.
Bobby, teacher
We love Bobby. He’s getting so
emotional. A student, his, tried vocal
scatting for the first time, and to some success. It just struck him.
Tears slipped down either side of
his wide smile. He was blubbery and
red. Full of love and ambivalence
for the sound.
After the work day
White noise brushed the
walls inbetween syncopated clicks
of her aubergine heels against the wood
floor. Everyone was aware of the metronome,
although their backs remained turned.
‘If I pricked your stomach with a finger
would your words be more articulate?’
‘If I squeeze your breasts with my pincers
would dust escape?’
Too much sex will be had with
wedding bands still on.
Love Quest
Seeking a university girl,
my nerves like fishing wire. No
good things pass around my head,
vibrating at the frequency of
a tuning fork. If at all, this
placidity is doing me in!
Looking for a college gal,
with a desparation in the
way I type, send a text it’s
languished verse, dripping
sweat like a rockslide.
I chuck my platitidues
at dames pursuing higher education,
until pitchers arm sets in,
and ironed pressure in the chest.
Like the world’s thinnest hand
is laid over my heart.
Looking for Zenobia,
with a heart piercing.
A Haunt
Meets on Santa Clara Ave,
Under looming bone effigies, the pale
Palms and cell towers.
The bow-legged strides,
Icey slither, serpentine
cruising, call that a haunt.
A haunt down scorched Camino Del Mar.
Manhattan (or other busy city) Couples
no preamble
administered to the
gossip of a lame couple
the heart worms
for such flaccid companions
that mistake intimacy for
team building exercises
as parsing checklists,
again, no empathy
for the ones who optimize
yet still is the un-embalmed
soul that winces at the
idea. Young and viral,
practice sex like blood letting.
The milk of these nights is viscous,
and thick with mystique. A
fragrant cloud, a narcotic that
rolls in like muted thunder, fogging
the bathroom mirror, and,
the pane above the kitchen sink.
in a whisper it bleeds through
the crack under the front door,
as it was waiting for us
to invite it in. An opaque voice,
this house guest,
mutters warmth and asks of us
nothing serious.
Campfire
Waxing suspicion
Leads an interrogation
Of this my situation
An alkaline insipidity
Oh Contemporary plunder
Cross eyed at the
gates
In the throat of some
Large happening
I wilt on the edge of the
Prairie
expanding in all terrible directions
Bow legged on
Two blades of yellow grass
Balanced hotly no
Slack in the line
Taught, burrowing descensus
A frown just about right
Who could make this decision
The mesquite taste of
A lapping campfire’s kisses
Or lavender bushels aromatic
Hum from winds away.
My, what a smell.
School Poem 1
Catholic football
fighter jet, and a good
time/fuck. Exploring
connections and being
open to new experiences
of blood pouring out
the mouth guard
shattered a few, too,
teeth, bone and cartilage
lug nut, screw on
looking in the mirror
and feeling
the effects of jumping
from the hot tub to
the pool, deep end.
Receiver. Blue eyes.
Freedom of action.
Right of sensual touch.
Shame then orgasm.
Bashing head on cement,
giving head. Missionary
into a touchdown. Ass.
School Poem 2
Bug spray alcoholic
Milwaukee fracture sweets
pesticide queen.
Candy painted nails
math the car, ants grow
hungry, get a taste for
her.
Marinated in Cola, in a
stainless steel sink.
Ants taking tiny bites
pinch nerve endings
agony in sleep agony
in conversations, her voice
like 180 grit sandpaper.
Pill bugs sanitizer,
vodka soda debit card
pharmacy advertisement model,
laid to rest in a Corolla.
School Poem 3
Water cooler bitters
learned and with gumption
no difference in this fission
then hungry Warsaw yard fights
lawn mower for the carpet
eye protection at lunch
star-bandaged at 7:00 A.M.
sharp.
Microscope bug, sick today
and next week.
Girls get prettier each
month, new teeth.
Science fair butoh,
Seditious principals lug
weights through
car parks. Home room dance floor,
gives me shivers.
As The Lord Spoke
And the good Lord spoke,
in pale fires
and yellow smoke,
'Lay off it, will ya?
Lay off it.'
Shafts of sunlight reach down
from Heaven
like fell wires,
something which compels
doctors to smoke, this
love connection to Heaven,
said God again,
'O desire, resentment, pussy-footin',
thy sword and rucksack,
Lay off it!'
Stiff shoulders in the hustle-bustle
shake like loose teeth on an
exhale,
like asking for permission
like the coo of the Holy Ghost.
Can't hear the rust in your
gray matter with all this traffic!
In our time, you can't let
nothing surprise you.
But the institution cradled in
its own arms rocks itself in a most
unnerving way.
you ever seen
30 suits in their death throes,
dance wildly?
A heard drive off a cliff, a ritual
scheduled on the calendar,
marks the end of the quarter, and
the next
and the next
and the other one too.
Security blanket got no
weight on me! Bastard -
Telegram sent from the office
one floor up.
They got the good life
They got it good up there.
They got it real figured out.
Not on the docket - a transmission
from the highest floor.
And the good Lord spoke,
in pale fires
and yellow smoke,
'Lay off it, will ya?
Lay off it.'
Knew A Folk
Knew a folk
So over his head
Quiet and contentious
Walked down streets
With a wind chime rage
Pulling leaves off of trees
Gas tank guzzling
Windshield wiper sort of
Psyche, brushed one thing
Off onto the other
Walked down streets
And brown stone retreats
Not a gracious
Proclivity I the s lm
Birds in small cities
Hosts of slippage
Out loud vulgar marching
In the treetops among
New summer leaves
As an expensive sun rises.
Both in arm was
A rough site, bad patchwork
For this wicked fixer
Unable to simmer
Blood jacket bomber figure
Runner
Check, runner
Peril in the streets as
Sun whafts in your face,
Potent this month, just
As summer recognizes in itself
A great deal of wariness
To the lot of you and
In a quiet and political way
Elects to retire this season and
Move on
What remains puckers your eyes
By Night, in Rio
An important woman straddles the
cloth debonair. She uses her
bamboo fingers to move the
wet hair from his eyes.
Above, in the loft, angels tune
their violas and piccolos to minor
scales, and toil away at a piece
by Messiaen. A red-eye flight
shreds through the orchestra,
kills first chair. Sick clouds with booming coughs
and sheet music strewn about. All of
this to say, the roads will be
backed up again. Below a leper,
peddler, hugs a corner. Tonight he’s pushing
nothing, selling to nobody. He leans
in a shadow and just observes, fixates
on each passing ass. Dreams of
fishing trips with his grandfather.
The air in the apartment is wet, so
much so, the woman’s shirt clings
to the folds of her skin. He slides
two fingers, then his whole hand
under the heat. Buildings (the first
and only time travelers) relax and
groan in relief. Their pleasure is important,
heavy. The night is heavy. In
a short time the many cranes of the
city will be woken up. Progress
never ceases, only takes
short rests. In similar fashion, a rogue
porter, lulled by the angels,
turns in his sleep. Boots already
laced, there’s two things to be
delivered. A plastic bag filled with
the ocean, and a videotape.
In the film she reveals a soft
underbelly beneath her veneer. It is
a burning love that
envelops her companion. He
decides that he would still like to be
here, smothered, even if he wasn’t
being paid to do so. He’d still enjoy
the city contract or not. The lagoa, the
clay ground. Tonight’s warmth and the
tremolo of tomorrow’s dawn
approaching. A breeze enters through the
window, and cools the now still
sheets. For all the money in the world,
here is a good place to be; or for none of it
the same.
Heaven Sent
When the power cut, and
Our house lights went,
We didn’t even notice,
‘Cause our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
And it rained for a week straight!
Biblically drenched,
Hardly did we wet, for this,
Our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
Oh and when the deluge hushed
So the sun could scream hot!
By God we aint stop,
‘Cause our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
And bleak as it was
Food spoiled, shadowy men,
No espionage wrecked our den,
Our love was
Heaven sent, Heaven sent.
Funny how, just yesterday,
Passing through a crowd-
Once again, there, your scent.
Ahhh, just for now,
Heaven sent, Heaven scent.
Kids These Days
Lacking a concept of mortality
the youth learn pathology from
digital tomes. Not dissimilar to
Buddhist rebirth, since code can always
end with a ‘loop’ syntax. This
results in a forever mentality. There is an
indifference to the consequences of life.
Finally, the perfect soldier!
Like damp clothes they fold on the wire.
Weighted, collapsed. So heavy their burden.
There’s no good
music on the radio these days.
dog leg
yeah
okay okay
I can beg. I will
beg for dog leg
humping and
oh, you're so like
rising yeast
doughy and white.
I need to
beg beg
leg hump
dog drools
oh... oh!!
kiss me doldrums!
My own private war
you can't smell it
but i'm burning a
hole through your
hair.
wouldn't ya know,
i've just launched
an assault on your being.
Sam Hill! I'm manning
the artillery against your sensibilities.
at last! your plum, all mine.
Poem for a waitress
In a small voice, ask me,
will this bout, how you spin it,
17,000 odd steps, neck craned, brow furrowed.
Today, warmth like a cooling stove
top, an embarrassing depression.
What’s worse would be an empathetic
feeling towards soldiers.
This day, any actualization will
surely flower results most saccharine.
Bobby, teacher
We love Bobby. He’s getting so
emotional. A student, his, tried vocal
scatting for the first time, and to some success. It just struck him.
Tears slipped down either side of
his wide smile. He was blubbery and
red. Full of love and ambivalence
for the sound.
After the work day
White noise brushed the
walls inbetween syncopated clicks
of her aubergine heels against the wood
floor. Everyone was aware of the metronome,
although their backs remained turned.
‘If I pricked your stomach with a finger
would your words be more articulate?’
‘If I squeeze your breasts with my pincers
would dust escape?’
Too much sex will be had with
wedding bands still on.
Love Quest
Seeking a university girl,
my nerves like fishing wire. No
good things pass around my head,
vibrating at the frequency of
a tuning fork. If at all, this
placidity is doing me in!
Looking for a college gal,
with a desparation in the
way I type, send a text it’s
languished verse, dripping
sweat like a rockslide.
I chuck my platitidues
at dames pursuing higher education,
until pitchers arm sets in,
and ironed pressure in the chest.
Like the world’s thinnest hand
is laid over my heart.
Looking for Zenobia,
with a heart piercing.
A Haunt
Meets on Santa Clara Ave,
Under looming bone effigies, the pale
Palms and cell towers.
The bow-legged strides,
Icey slither, serpentine
cruising, call that a haunt.
A haunt down scorched Camino Del Mar.
Manhattan (or other busy city) Couples
no preamble
administered to the
gossip of a lame couple
the heart worms
for such flaccid companions
that mistake intimacy for
team building exercises
as parsing checklists,
again, no empathy
for the ones who optimize
yet still is the un-embalmed
soul that winces at the
idea. Young and viral,
practice sex like blood letting.
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