$$

Grant. Sounds so religious, so unattainable.

"the dark is always at the top"

At 104

Run mind run
Over and around in color
Talk about truth
He never lies and that's why he took his own life
Kinship with nothingness, the wu chi
Oh how we miss your blue integrity.

Another Not So Happy Birthday, Rothko!

Yom Kippur

Today, I mourn the loss of humanity. I realize there is so much more to deal with than my own personal accountability; however, I will remain accountable but want to expand the scope of consciousness that will lead us all out of our own narcissistic entrapments.

MoneyTalks

another excerpt from September 10th

Doubling over with cramps he gasps for air, clean air, struggles to rid the poison from his lungs, the bile from the complimentary meal, his stomach rebelling. This time heaving uncontrollably he’s unable to make it to the bathroom. With the sleeve of his shirt he wipes off his mouth, stands up and leans against the cool wall of windows for support. Pushing the curtains aside he looks down at Times Square. Must be hallucinating, he thinks. It is vacant, empty of pedestrians. Then again he’s unsure that he is capable of distinguishing between reality and nightmare. Is he awake or asleep? Has he been asleep all this time? Did this really happen? With the plastic Marriott pen he punctures the flesh on his forearm. No, he is not asleep; this is definitely not a dream.

The paper in the vinyl folder with the embossed logo is so clean and crisp. He pages through the Welcome book and looks at the lists—restaurants, shopping, attractions, room service, places of worship. Flashing back to the plaza downtown it appears as an altar of human sacrifice. Like the toxic dump of humanity, mangled among the remains of the supreme excesses of architecture, the World Trade Center. Man created it. Man takes it away. There is no god to blame here. Not that he ever thought there was one but now he’s sure and strangely takes comfort in the fact.

excerpt from September 10th

He anticipates the inspector’s ludicrous objections. Not the structural insulated panels with pre-installed electric and plumbing, that is, if the unions don’t rampage. Or the walls of fire proofed recycled newspaper. The galvanized steel roof with photovoltaic panels and the cistern that collects storm water for irrigation, reducing water and energy use. Who could reject this approach in a city notorious for excessive power consumption? They’ll say the Dutch seized Manhattan in Battery Park, imprisoned the Native Americans and built a city of stone, that New York was built to last. And he’d counter with recycled plastic--a half life of a trillion years.

the spectrum

i'm hot
i'm not
so what

Muse Fix

conditional love

I shot you and

you shot me

in a wave of violence against humanity

and all we had were pictures to show for it.

I need your shot. You need mine.

I keep wanting to give them up. Yours, I mean.

To say I don’t belong

to these

pictures.

And then…and then…we keep showing up

in them

together.

Despite,

in spite of ourselves.

We keep showing up

to be together,

in spite of ourselves.

We can’t help it;

we can’t recant. is this love?

Is this love?

Dick Heads

This is in commemoration of Karl Rove's("the architect of the Bush Presidency") resignation. It is a detail from a mural collage 'Fornicating Pontificaters' I started more than five years ago. The genesis of this particular section "Dick Heads" came about from walking around and spotting a condom on the ground.{ Don't you just find the creative process facinating} I took a photograph not fully knowing where it would take me. Back at my studio I started inserting photos in the center of the condom.....voila so many dick heads so little time.

when thoughts don't matter

how hard is it to write something original when there is no intent? that's what i've been thinking about lately. when it's not a novel, a screenplay, an essay, an article. when the road map doesn't matter. like taking a trip to nowhere. no plan, no destination. just go. to just let go.

excerpt from September 10th

The crack of ice reverberates like a dissonant intruder moving through the loft-like space. Pacing the site line from the euro kitchen back to the drawing table seems like the longest walk of the century, his only solace in the smooth jolt of transparent liquor diminishing from his water glass.

Ode to David Lynch

untitled

dying to write. dying to live. living to die. why?