Poetry:

I was in my 2nd year of Engineering, my 5th year of University and felt like I was doing the wrong thing, again.I was reading Bukowski and Carver a great deal; and many novelists, I daydreamed about being a writer but never wrote a word.  The first set of midterms in the 2nd semester were coming up and I suddenly couldn't study, I stopped going to classes and just read and drank coffee and worked out in residence.  After a party and a little alcohol, I sat down in my room and wrote two poems.  Short, concise; and I thought pretty damn good for a first effort.  But that feeling of having created something on my own was unlike anything I had ever done before.  I was hooked.

I dropped out of Engineering and then transferred to Fine Arts, thinking Literature would be right.  It wasn't, I dropped out of that before attending a single class.  I got full time work and spent most of my free time writing and working and reading.  Never published a thing but the joy of writing, being a writer; exploring myself was enough for about 3 years.

Then I hit a wall, all that writing cleaned me out of most of my problems, angst, worries.  I run out of material to write about and endless editing was also going nowhere.  Writer's block perhaps, but then maybe I just wasn't a writer enough for that excuse.

Now during that time (and even before) I had also nursed a interest in Art.  Picasso first, Rodin, Matisse, Van Gogh, Hockney, Stella,Pollack,DeKooning,Kline,Guston,Smith,Caro,NevelsonBourgeiosSerraClosePeacock......

The list just started growing; never ending of course.  And I doodled when writing.  Finally I bought a Graham Peacock painting; and then decided when I had saved enough $ for a second painting, instead I bought painting supplies to see what I could do. Next.

That something returned; and I've been painting ever since.

And now I have a website; and I can show my old poetry that was really the start of my painting career. Some poems have even made it to the painted platform so I'll start wtih those (I didn't stop writing all together but it has to be a pretty damn good idea/poem for me to bother).

WARNING: X-PLICIT SCENES BELOW.

'tables at nine'

there are

stout fellows                                                                                                                                                              tall gentlemen                                                                                                                                                           and fancy ladies

all at this beach.

‘the poem'

the pen,

the paper.

the smoke,

the wine.

the noise

the quiet.

the word,

the line.

'better'

long lists of words are not the friends

I'd imagined them to be

but my blood blisters have hardened now

to indigo nodules beneath

and I am watching the bubbles that

blow out from the neck of this bottle

realizing that making sense

is just a matter of punctuation

-ha.

'whew.'

her hand job in the dark

lands down in among

the six of us.

catching on our sleeping bags

and the cold wet grass

parking lot. 

'sharks feed'

sharks feed

while you

watch T. V...

they are swimming

through the green sea

right now,

targetting

& into ripping,

death.

while above,

behemoth tankers

float about

that petrochemical mix

we all use

from all around.

from all around

where others,

unlike you and I,

live hard lives;

and everything

is different

all the time.

and

I

don't

know

how

you

can

be

so

un

a

w

a

r

e.

off.

'defecate'                                                                                                                 (writing)

I sit;

and pass(sss)

a big log.

then,

thus emptied,

can rest.

'the sound of blows'

I awoke, at thirteen,

to the sound of blows.

they were my own,

they were my own,

learning that stubborn word,

love.

'the WHY'

few thoughts are truly clear;

and with a memory as expedient as most,

I find that I must do this.

'oh no.'

in my bed, the girl.

once in rut,

now lies on her back,

rubbing her belly,

all warm and ropy,

and thinking,

there's a baby made,

inside,

maybe.

'of a writer: the hope'

I am opening now,

on these pages more than ever before;

and, I hope,

less than what tomorrow brings.

'jesus.'

I pull the string,

mouth full of blood.

-you guessed it,

I am in love.

'behind'

the river awakes.

my table is set.

she breathes on her side,

wanting resurrection from 'the small death':

"just gimme your length."

'coffee'

in me cup.

white steam

over black.

I drink you,

unsweetened,

uncalmed.

bitter dark

your currents run.

'race-ing'

death is coming

and I am running

but only keeping pace

realize.

'try'

try, try, try...

never be content with close.     

'the skull'

so slight

  the skull.

jiggle-jiggle

  it holds,

the mind.

in all of nature,

  the only true chaos.

'the WHY 2'

I have this wound.

It bleeds so.

It is the unknowing

of what to do next.

'masterpiece'

the paint is silent.

something,

however,

screams.

'the dream'

the spoken word is only air.

a slight vibration, to disappear.

but words written; and put to print,

can last forever, to persist past death.

'next building'

she pads out from the bedroom,

slap-suck

slap-suck

in bare feet.

a sleep-swelled form

with eyes all swollen like clams (all grey & black).

she lands her pantied ass onto the single kitchen chair

and window-sills these yellow, cracked, soles;

and settles into her first coffee and cigarette,

scents dispersed by the third floor, river valley breeze.

the same breeze which does alert her big arm-rest tits;

and all the rest,

right now, to this,

my gaze.

'aw-fuck'

the adversary plume of mathematics

confronts every half-awake morning this, 

my warm erection,

that adolescant impulse reaction to the hot sun

and blue-jean pressure;

and now the act of abashment:

showing the answer

to some damm question to the class

on the blackboard "please."

'poet'

blood in hand,

and ink in pen;

I throw,

and throw,

and throw again.

'wrench'

massively pissed

and hair in air

(i am) face-crashed drunk

going nowhere

but up against this building now

making mouth puke soup

and wishing it would stop

and promising myself

to never ever

never never

never again

do this...

but somehow

in writing this

after doing it again                                                                              (& again)

there is at least a little time

before the next

necessary event

to rattle at my cage's door.

'I Try'

somehow

this dark ink feeds itself to the page

and somehow the paper's fibers hold it

and let it clot

this

a writer's blood

somehow drying into words

fire-lit by electrons

burst-down dam-flooding thru copper miles

and exploding in this city within

the hollow glass bulb

above my skull,

all this,

somehow.

'rise'

i wake

to a

new apocalypse,

run my hand

thru

her hair.

i grow

hard

behind her;

and know

everything

is

here.

'simply being straight'

her 54-36-42 walk

is doing it to my cock.

and she wants it to...

and so,

up the staircase slowly

she leads the beast,

thru the kitchen

  curtain-hid,

past the rear doorway

  streetlight-lit,

and halt by a closet

  to suck her tit,

then past the toilet

  of all games rid,

and to my bed,

  to be wed,

where my love

is licked

sucked

fucked

and finally hand-jobbed  out.

and now

my sperm-filled

finger-dipping

belly-button bowl

seems now

a strange awake end

but then

oh well.                                                  

'howl'

young child

I say to you

get your message out

anyway you know how.

yeah,

yell.

'recognize'

I am this little splasher,

playing in this half-full tub of wash water,

all surrounded with floating toys,

and soap suds...

just sitting;

and letting...

'bolstered'

my art is cold.

the black on white of words.

and only in the mind

can be conjured the colors of this world.

but at least it is not a pretend.

what is said can be learned.

ideas are sugar for a young mind.

'OVER time'

so close, so long,

for all these nights.

and yet nothing's right;

-and yet, it is.

but there is a limit.

it is this rubbing up against

the grain of your dream

of another.

'from/to/the'

I bring with me

from the bed

to this chair

the weight

which bends all things.

that from inside

which with a pen

I've drawn out

and put down

onto paper,

-the learned word.

'oceans; seas, lakes, rivers; and streams'

women are water,

waves I drown under.

'man-kind'

my right hand is my friend.

he looks nice; and works so hard for me,

veined and strong.

but my left hand is who fucks me,

-so bugger off.

'other bed beside mine, greaseland'

I'll never not see this:

that suspendered lad

fingering it on the axle

vaseline thick

and so shaft driven

burning with RPM's

when

that power take-off

tractor trap

below-the-knee rents

with a blue-jean liquorice twist

of then

these hospital night screams.

'a branch of holly'

a branch of holly

still scratches at my eyes,

that gin/lime/twist grin under your perfection,

the two night's worth of you & I.

ceaseless is my night-lit memory inspection

as you slide down your panty                        (and let me see)

and pass your weight onto me

down on me

along me

a warm grazing beast

to masticate

I

parting your runny thighs

to tongue halve you

and all that that heat moves

the kitten mews

and our hands

are mirrors of our flesh

our breeding smeared mouths touch

taste

and chew

and

then

stretching on top

arm-collared and inhaling

your fuck-tainted breath

and acid-cave armpit air

to bang away into

the flesh-and-blood wood knot

you've become...

after, you let

the rooster/cock preen,

rut enjoyed, as my muscle home laps

up against your cuhioned womb.

'mountain'

callus upon the earth

millenium's worth of work

you soar

(and probably are)

crusted, layered, cracked

to stand forever, yet someday fall

so must we all.

‘boink’

not a fink

I like the stink.

so on the brink

I drink

spreading ink

& think

(I’m ‘bout to-)

“sink the pink”.

my huge/big dink

(-that link)

in that sink

my kink

(Ha!) (O)-ink,

that lovely wet mink,

& for her satisfied wink

sometimes

I countersink.

‘hand (rail) job’

cock cunt

kiss spit.

lick hand

work dick.

balls suck

mmm clit.

anal wash

drink piss.

epic opus

wish list.

anus fuck

fuck tits.

‘bus/train transit reality calculation’

What’s this?

A movement!

Oh no, oh no.

Too many stops,

Too many stops,

Before I have to go.

01.26.20

‘love-end’

spend all those years becoming beautiful…

then we meet.

laugh, love, make love, home, child…

then end.

and now you’re ruined…

and me.

06.08.20

‘first thought, best thought. last thought, full stop’

words escape

when thoughts touch air.

just old gasps and rasps,

not young.

sandpaper poetry from

my lizard’s tongue.

-knowing,

tomorrows suns will still all rise

and disregard my lungs that die & dry.

07.11.20

‘bones of self’

hip, back, elbow, neck, wrist.

Tuesday’s list,

getting to the toilet.

who sent this text?

my house is a mess.

my 24 hr. world.

I shit.

I pee.

I paint to see.

11.13.20

(happy birthday to me)

‘no luvy-duvy’

we two crones at it again,

for no pretend for what it is.

what it is, is make me cum.

no luvy-duvy down there.

panties around an ankle, that stirrup.

black leather belt restraint.

cock in mouth cunt ass hair,

fancy living room fuck me lair.

there’s no luvy-duvy there.

04.03.21

‘little craters’

scratching at the scabs on the bridge of my nose;

and the little thick flapjack ones on my cheeks.

shit what a mess.

what happened? -too much happened on those nights

drunken and thinking and walking miles till home not puking

but looking at me in the mirror roar-rim.

white sink white toilet white walls white mess. I’ll fix that and did.

week later they lift off all around the edges. -leave them alone and they’ll fall off

leaving new baby skin, but I just can’t.

pull them off; and the fresh new blood.

-and soon the little craters.

04.21.21

‘black midi’

drums

bass

guitar

drums

bass

guitar

drums

bass

guitar

brains

heart

go hard.

02.21.22

‘transit relativity’

look out your window.

that’s life, the real world,

speeding by.

faster than it should.

08.21.22

‘Texas Peach’

5 foot 1,

a good deal of it bum.

I like it;

I licks it.

baby deserves to cum.

10.22.22

‘forever’

she said,

“I’ll love you forever”.

but then,

I said the same.

that word is so shit.

merde word.

08.04.23

‘Sagan fact’

we (a)r(e)

13.7 billion

year-old

stardust.

no wonder

then,

my knees

hurt.

08.04.23

‘chalice’’

you are a fine thinker,

making me a drinker,

of my favourite fountain,

holding onto your mountain.

07.28.23