Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Self Portrait: 1

The background is more of a navy than black, but in the photo it looks black.  By the way, it's a sperm and an egg, for all of you who thought it was a worm eating ice cream.

Khalid Shaikh Mohammed

Monoprint of the self proclaimed "9/11 Mastermind."  He's on trial right now and I saw his picture in the newspaper and thought it was the most terrifying thing i've ever seen.  I'm going to keep working on them though, because i don't think i quite captured how scary he looks in the photo.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Bespeckled Dissenters

This photo isn't as bad as the other one, but I'll probably take a better one anyway. 


This is an absolutely horrendous photo, and I realize this.  I'm going to take a better photo and replace it.

Painting of a sculpture called "girl bathing."  I thought it would be interesting to paint a sculpture, because I think the way I paint is sort of like sculpting...

Thursday, November 26, 2009

The Lonely Accordion

With all his strength,
He pushes the bellows together
And deftly articulates the sound
With his nimble fingers.

He plays old French songs,
Rarely heard since his youth;
Rarely heard in America.

The sweet waltz fills his dusty apartment,
And a breeze comes through the open window,
Carrying the volatile sounds of the city.

At the last of his strength,
He sets his soul down
And whispers:
"No one reads me like you."

"L.H.O.O.Q.," or, "Leo, Mona, Marcel, and Me"


What has Dada done?
He spits on your face;
Taunts! Mocks!
Your glory... undone!

But Mona,
What's that you say?
It cannot possibly be true!
That vulgar phrase--

Monday, November 16, 2009

Sing, Alcatraz! Sing!

The electric chair

Sally's Income

Swear ta gawd you can hear tha ocean

The interesting thing about painting seashells in the water connection.  very elemental.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

The Playground



I'll try to take some better pictures of it soon.  It's inspired by Piet Mondriaan, I suppose.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Still Life

Skull, weird piece of wood, wooden ball, bottle, peacock feathers.  the most difficult part was the peacock feathers, by far.

Mad White Horses

You can smell it
Before it begins.
Upon deep inhalation,
The cold penetrates,
Seeping into the brain,
Triggering over-awareness.
Now you realize how quiet it is.
And the altitude;

Rolling in the distance
Growing louder
Like thunder!
Like horses accelerating
From a trot
To a gallop!

Fallen on the train tracks.
There is no way out
Of the path of inevitable danger.

Frantically scale down!
They say do not look down
Or else vertigo ensues.
But nothing could strike more fear
Than looking up
And seeing that wall
Of mad white horses
Frantically charging
Full speed ahead!

O, to be enveloped
In that blanket!
That icy small-pox blanket!
Slow, painful death,
Without a friend
To whisper comforting words.
To whisper, to murmur, to talk
To yell, to scream!
It is screaming above you!
Horses!  Laughing!
Screaming with ecstasy!

All there is to see
Is purgatorial white.
But Saint Peter does not
Whisper comforting words,
Or extend his hand.
No one does.

In this backwards place
There is no up or down
Or right or left.
Only cold and white.
Perhaps by chance,
A foot is sticking out
Of the vast whiteness.
Perhaps while you are still alive,
Someone sees it,
And rescues you.
Perhaps, after you die,
Someone sees it,
And gives you a proper funeral.

But then again,
Is a cold, lonely funeral,
Not appropriate for such a
Cold, lonely man?

Why were you on this mountain
By yourself to begin with?
You knew when you began your ascent
That you would not survive the avalanche;
You can smell it before it begins.

Some Sort of Sense of Companionship

It's a simple procedure,
I don't see what all the fuss is about.
It's just like when you get it checked out.

You don't even have to pay for it!
I'll pay for it.

I love you.


Sammy Davis Jr. does about everyt
The actor who wrote "Yes, I Can," and starre
the Broadway hit "Golden Boy" is now Co-Prod
ing and playing the leading part in the Ti
Western for ABC-TV

The man, the myth, the legend

P.S. check out that lip.  Sexy, Noah...real sexy.

Separation Anxiety

The Different World

Cover of my sketchbook.  And what a world it is!


Giraffes, in Ink


Vladimir Nabokov, in ink

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


The cold does not bite,
It only gnaws
Your exposed skin,
Making its presence known.

I remember
Building an Igloo with Hal.
Maggie at her pottery wheel,
Molding the uncertain clay
To her merciful desire.

My mother,
Sits in the glowing parlor.
She peers out the frosty window
And sees Hal and me.
A smile breaks on her face.
To some, perhaps unforseen.
But I saw it coming.

At last,
She and I were home.
Home in Vermont.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

The Army From The North

Standing at the banks of the river
I can hear their citizens cheer their heroes.
Always victorious,
They make boys out of the strongest,
Fiercest men we have.

Sometimes, in my most desperate moments,
I consider treason...
But I could never!

Why do I stand here,
On the banks of the river?
It is a tempting river to cross,
And so very,

Some may find it easier to break such young loyalties.
But although these loyalties are young,
They are not untested.

I stand on the southern bank
Because my father stood here,
23 years ago,
When we were victorious.
When, for a fleeting moment,
The Queen bested the King.

O, how I wish I could celebrate--
Not in cheering their beloved army
But in cheering my own.
Just as my father did.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The Girl From Salamanca

She talks to me in the night
Whispering in my ear
Telling me stories

During the day, when she is in the bakery
I am free to daydream about her
Such a wispy beauty!
Her curved spine is but another curve in her figure
Like an old tree
Hugging me with its branches
Fingers like branches--
Long; delicate.

In the evening we meet
Dine on wine and cheese
She makes me laugh.
But not my usual cackle...
An unfamiliar sound escapes me,
Richer than the wine or the cheese.
A deep, hearty laugh.

We retire,
The girl from Salamanca, and I.
The phonograph skips
And she whispers in my ear,
Maybe talking, maybe singing, maybe telling me stories
I cannot tell as I sail off to sleep.
I dream not of her, but with her,
Falling asleep in eachother's arms

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

The Objects Of Freedom

It is my firmly held belief
That only boring people
Have the capacity to lead a boring life.
Cut from a different mold than I,
I should think.

I will be as free as an airplane!
Or a subway car!
Or as an actor.

Free!  Free!  Free to live where I please
And think what I please.
These things are very important to me.
As are my books
And hats and scarves
And mittens and boots and coats.
Clothes for the summer months too.
For when I return.
Like an airplane,
Or a subway car.

Or a goose,
Coming home to find a quick fix.
Before he leaves again,
When autumn blows in,
This time, for good.

I Remember

Je me souviens
The Rocket
Flying.  A streak of
Dancing Bleu, Blanc, et Rouge

Je me souviens
When the Anglos told
The Rocket
It could not fly

Je me souviens
How the people revolted
The passion of hundreds of years
Of poverty ...Je me souviens

Monday, October 26, 2009

Requiem For An Aging Shoe

I felt so new
So crisp and fully saturated

Now I am worn

A year is not a long time
Relatively, for a human
But it is for a shoe

I remember running
Being untied

I don’t even look good anymore

Take me to the gallows!
To the electric chair!
To both;
To the telephone wire!
I would rather hang, singed hourly by electricity
Like a leather Prometheus
Than be neglected
Any longer

Sunday, October 18, 2009


Isn't it curious how when you take a piss, the top of the water in the toilet bowl foams up just like a bubble bath? Perverse...yet, soothing. And nostalgic, because I remember noticing those things when I was really young, and thinking it was cool back then. I don't think I've really noticed it since then, until just now.


Friday, October 16, 2009

The Great Southwestern Cactus Society

I like the first part that I photographed close up the best. Originally I intended for all three pieces to be mounted together, but I might end up just mounting that one on its own.

Self-Portrait, Chuck Close Style

marlon brando in "on the waterfront"

For a contest at a local movie theater. The theme is "what's special about Hoboken?" winner gets $1,000. wish me luck!

Thursday, October 8, 2009

the guy who took the photo of piccasso that i painted, passed away today

His name was Irving Penn, I don't know much about his work, other than that it was featured in an old issue of Life Magazine that I was going through. I thought it was a cool photo so I decided to paint it, and my painting won a Judge's Award in the Teen Art's Fair, which was pretty cool. Like I said I'm not that familiar with his work, but I figured I'd put something up here about it. His photo inspired me and I'm sure he's inspired other people too.

In other news, I don't know if anyone reads this blog but I realized I haven't uploaded any real art of mine in a while. I have a bunch of stuff, I just have to take pictures of it.

Monday, August 31, 2009

An Ode To My Beloved Assistant

The ‘F’ provides the perfect beginning
Like bellows for the fireplace
The lip is pushed into the teeth
Pushing out the hot, suspenseful, stinky breath of profanity
Like a light fuse of dynamite
Eyes watch in horror as the spark slides closer to the inevitable
Eyes watch in horror as the mouth forms the first sounds
“He’s not going to say it!”

The ‘U’ is hesitant.
Suddenly, he remembers hours of childhood punishment
Stool in corner
Soap in mouth
Triggering a million pervasive, frantic thoughts
In his perverse little mind
“Do I dare utter the unholiest of unholies?”
"Do I dare make this pact with satan?"

Finally, with a deafening choke; like a clap of thunder
It has been done. The deed has been done.
The dynamite explodes, leaving behind only ringing ears, dropped jaws, and rubble
Never has a word, so evil, yet so satisfying, been spoken

Monday, April 20, 2009

Portland, Oregon

I was there recently. I didn't have access to a real camera on the trip, so I had to take crappy camera phone pictures. Just thought I'd post them. None of these pictures are artwork necessarily, but it's an extremely cool city. Very unique culture.

Portland is nicknamed the City of Roses (or something like that) because the city has moist winters and cool summers, which are apparently the optimum conditions for growing roses all over the place. here is a tree in front of someone's house that was chock-full of roses. I didn't know you could grow them on trees.
Lot's of public art in Portland.

Just some metal roosters
Cool sign for a theater (I think. It might have been a hotel).
Flying metal pigs.
Some bronze (i think) beavers
Big ol' metal horse.
More rooster bissness.

Some cool painted fish displayed on the side of a parking garage (I know it's a bad picture)

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Bad art is still art II

I was in a diner with some friends, and made some faces out of sweet 'n low (or was it splenda?) while I waited for my nachos. Malibu Diner is great, by the way. The waitress didn't even get mad when she saw that I made a mess.