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.