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)

things to do:

1. start a plastics company in brazil

2. find a spot nearby and lay in the sun for a while

3. talk to a scientist about snow and other weather phenomena

4. develop a canadian christmas band

5. eat the fruit of the mango or pineapple while sitting across tables from men of power and exquisite taste

6. lie in an old grave while shaving

7. pee like the batman

8. grow misty-eyed looking out over the great grey fields of western texas

9. really finally get started on learning how to do a great ‘deaf guy’ impression

10. when swearing the oath, tell nothing but lies lies lies

11. drive around the neighborhood in the middle of the afternoon wondering what these people are like that live in these houses. what are their lives like? what do they do when they’re alone?

12. be young and then grow old

13. warm up the ham that’s in the fridge and serve it to a blind cat

14. buy more gold

Khrushchev (acrylic, paper, glue, wood on canvas)

oh, the things i would do

i would sing her a lullaby

in the trees at night by my house

the wolves circling hungrily below

i would make her omelets

in the kitchen while she bathed 

in the pool in the back yard

i would call her to madrid

eventually knowing the end

was just around the corner

i would build her a sunday

one saturday afternoon

the cherries covering the floor

i would let her know

what i was feeling

years after she had left

on her answering machine

the drink in my hand

falling into the carpet

3155 (paper, acrylic, glue, ink and wood)

groucho marx

i finally made it back to earth

i’d been sleeping in your hair

my heart filled with roses

my legs folded under the table

scribbling down the loose

thoughts gathered at the corners

of my face

a twig sticking out of my ear

digging deeper i found a nest

and a bowl of sparrow eggs

and a bird the color of butter

eating a loaf of bread

going on and on about 

gorgonzola

i couldn’t stop crying

yet i did finally

and proceeded to build

a gigantic fortress out of

old tires and japanese wigs

i’d sleep there in the winter

after you’d moved to chicago

occasionally

1644 (paper, ink, acrylic, glue on wood)

forty-niners vs the packers

although it is night

i put my face on my face

and drive into the city

my heart sleeping 

in the little bed

in the little house

god built for it

being driven

into the great darkness

in my beautiful car

fish eating my hands

and arms the blood

making bright blue snakes

in the salty sea water

you said you'd call right back

hut one hut two

forty-two fifty-five hut hut

snapping the ball

into the inside 

of your thighs

the feel of leather

i put the phone

in the bag with the rice

and hoped for the best

the love of god II (paper, magazines, string, acrylic paint, glue and wood)

the end of an era

we were stranded in cleveland

angie dickinson and me and the spider monkey

we’d huddle together

to stay warm most nights

the rats nibbling on our feet

the fresh venison laid out on the end tables

the flies in slow lazy circles

buzzing through the tent

she’d tell me stories of when she was starting out in the business

how she’d got her big break in ‘police woman’ 

she’d dated charles dierkop for a while

but the relationship ended in his apparent suicide

she’d always end the story with the question

‘who never dies?’ 

gazing out the hotel’s window

chewing on one of the deer legs

boom (paper, glue, wood, dan winters photo and acrylic paint)

tina turner

all the black girls

at my house

were laying on the floor

taking out their underwear

and wrapping it around

the moon

i threw my phone 

into the ocean

and tore my clothes off

catching all the rays

around my

pool

i’ve been

peeing the entire

time i’ve been writing this

into my pants

and all over

the floor