The Act of Always Being Awake (Digital Collage)

Purple Haze

the meat in my head is purple

where once it was orange 

as a kid riding my bike through the city

i don’t see things the way i did back then

when i worked at the spaghetti warehouse

before afghanistan and the world trade center

i’m not sure what my emotional state is

most of the time. if i’m getting better or worse

there is a name for my condition but that doesn’t help much

i bought a gun a few weeks ago and take it out

and look at it sometimes when you’re sleeping

the horses standing just outside the window

the wind blowing the rain across the road

a long slow train leaving the station

tomorrow or just the end of time

Making Sure I Was Alone I Took My Shirt Off 2015 (digital collage)

gene simmons' air hockey table

i hadn’t seen him in years

and he looked so much older

i asked him how many crayons 

would it take to

color the whole world blue

and 

how many different blues are there

i’d guess maybe fifty, but what do i know

it’s been years since i hung myself in my bedroom

from the doorknob of the closet

but

i’d want the biggest box they had

fifty blues would be nice 

i could really match the color to each

glorious day

full of sun

my arms lying in the grass

open to new suggestions

my blue skin against

the gray skin of the morning

unbuttoning my shorts

one button at a time so

the whole class could see

and then filling in the blanks

with all the leftover colors

The Gold Standard (wood, glass, glue, ink, paper and acrylic paint)

from the darkness

the devil owes me some onions

he was making a lasagna

one night and i gave him some

from my surplus supply

i wasn't aware that you put onions

in lasagna, but what do i know

i’m just a man who's intentions are good

a sinner who can’t stop crying

i also asked him for some things

that i’d rather not talk about in

this poem. it’s confidential.

sure i’m an artist, but not the kind

that tells you all kinds of secrets

about themselves

like i’m an excellent tambourinist

or that my urine tastes like electricity

or that my arms are doll like

and have fallen into the fire 

and that i’m writing

this sitting in a chair

in a forest 

inside a mall 

in New Mexico 

surrounded by monsters

Listening to a neverending 

loop of christmas songs

while the whole world 

slowly turns to shit

The Happiest Moment of my Life (ink, paper, glue, acrylic paint and resin)

under your feet

i ain’t no spider

laying in a grave

waiting for the cancer

to come and clear my plate

i ain’t no liar

all filled up with gold

trying out all my answer

on anyone who will listen

i ain’t no real chemist

i just make stuff that tastes great

and puts the pants on the monkey

when no one else will

i ain’t no harlequin romance novel

i'm a real nancy drew cryer

all the time

ask my girlfriend. she’ll tell you it’s true

i ain’t no back alley deal

that you made with the italian

that didn’t turn out as badly, i guess

as it could have

i ain’t no mouse in your mouth

while you try to say your name 

to the police officer

standing beside your car

i ain’t the dish filled with bacon

ready to be enjoyed

your heart in a glass

by the stove

i am the face of the grey horizon

the receding hairline of the city

breaking under the weight of heaven

open your eyes

open your eyes

open your eyes

FIGHT (acrylic paint, foil stars, paper, ink and glue on wood)

among the living

I don't usually tackle the big heavy 

statements like, "an old man should 

never phone too deeply into a pole"

my brain isn't smart enough 

at this point to carry the weight 

of such a profound statement 

so instead I write things like

i see a small black bird

every time you smile at me

and then go

walking around

not barefoot

The Bearded Giant (acrylic, paper, ink, glue on wood)

black batman

he wore the fur lined cape 

of the black bat man

into the disco 

the music so loud 

it made a perfect circle

down on the dance floor

he moved through the crowd 

like liquid snow

steam coming off his cheeks

he shook hands 

with the bartender

the black hands of desire

the place would burn to the ground

less than three weeks later

killing most of them

but tonight wasn’t made for that sort of thing

tonight wasn’t made for worrying

about a future that would never arrive

tonight was made for michelob

and benson and hedges

and hand jobs in the black

back part of the club and

whatever else the world

had to throw into our way

Phillipe (acrylic, paper, ink, glue on canvas)

writing a fantastic poem at the airport 

on your phone while waiting for your life

to be over

is not an easy thing to do

well it's really not that hard either i guess

the results vary

there's a guy on tv in a grey t-shirt 

and a baseball cap 

facing backwards

he has a beard

i assume he's a full grown man 

only posing as a small child

the ‘newscasters’ are discussing

the death of a comedienne who passed away 

unexpectedly last week

all of these people are sitting in front of microphones

they must have important things to say

i can only imagine

what am i missing

so much 'news'

all over the world

crazy shit. 

my friend tells me about a boy 

holding a severed head

he saw in the news recently

i see the boy quite clearly in my mind

he is dressed like amal from the christmas play

he has a karate kid style bandana

he's a cute kid who you'd normally see playing baseball or video games

sort of a brunette version of my own son

he’s got a gun strapped to his back

he's covered in dust and grime

he’s finally getting the attention he deserves from these lunatics 

he seems to be surrounded by

the body of the dead man unburied nearby

the corpse's flaccid penis clearly visible

but who is this dead guy?

no idea. some dude. if it was the head of the comediane

i guess the whole country would be more concerned

but it’s not. just some middle eastern looking stranger

a ghost. a prop. no one to concern myself with

here in this airport surrounded by animals

The Killer (paper, ink, glue, acrylic on canvas)