Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
What Happened to the Buffalo Mind
Here is a book of paintings on paper. Painted this some time ago. I still have this book.
ARTIST BODY PARTS
Here are some pretty curious pieces I made awhile back. Still like them and hope you do too. Series is called Artist Body Parts. Still working on completing the suite.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
SPIES OF HEAVEN
SPIES OF HEAVEN
Spies of heaven
are the little yellow dots
sprinkling over your mind
every once in a while
It is the fantasy of angels
Peering through your life
While you eat.
While you shit, or fuck.
It is the god within you
turned inward, dissatisfied
with your precious flesh
abandons you
in the shallow grave
of your life
busted by times
infinite nothing
Spies of Heaven are
Mysterious people
Looking through your eyes
Shadows of another world
While you sit riveted
To a chair
Staring into a cup
Breathing - strangely.
They are cooking breakfast
In a kitchen
On another street
In another town
Sitting at a table
A cloth, a cup, a plate…
A broom, plant
And always there
On the counter, death
As the light of the sun
Staring through your eyes
they don’t know it
just as you
don’t know yourself
There are distant
cosmic processes
going on in every step
every pore on your skin
every molecule
of your being
a cavernous echo
of history’s deadly plot
They play out
in the blink
of your eye
the infinite variations
of you
while one is enough
Spy of heaven
is the witness
In the clay mold
Of your flesh
The ground
Of which you stand
It is keeping tabs on you
Counting the genes
Destroying them
And then counting again
The war in your stomach
Is merely a symptom
Of its infinite permanence
It is simply there
To outlive the matter
Of which you
are composed
it is there to remind you
that it will reclaim
what you call yourself
and once again
you will be part
of the great void.
Spies of heaven
are the little yellow dots
sprinkling over your mind
every once in a while
It is the fantasy of angels
Peering through your life
While you eat.
While you shit, or fuck.
It is the god within you
turned inward, dissatisfied
with your precious flesh
abandons you
in the shallow grave
of your life
busted by times
infinite nothing
Spies of Heaven are
Mysterious people
Looking through your eyes
Shadows of another world
While you sit riveted
To a chair
Staring into a cup
Breathing - strangely.
They are cooking breakfast
In a kitchen
On another street
In another town
Sitting at a table
A cloth, a cup, a plate…
A broom, plant
And always there
On the counter, death
As the light of the sun
Staring through your eyes
they don’t know it
just as you
don’t know yourself
There are distant
cosmic processes
going on in every step
every pore on your skin
every molecule
of your being
a cavernous echo
of history’s deadly plot
They play out
in the blink
of your eye
the infinite variations
of you
while one is enough
Spy of heaven
is the witness
In the clay mold
Of your flesh
The ground
Of which you stand
It is keeping tabs on you
Counting the genes
Destroying them
And then counting again
The war in your stomach
Is merely a symptom
Of its infinite permanence
It is simply there
To outlive the matter
Of which you
are composed
it is there to remind you
that it will reclaim
what you call yourself
and once again
you will be part
of the great void.
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