After Beginning Of An Abstract (pt.2)

Two posts ago, Beginning Of An Abstract, I showed you step one on one of my abstracts.  This here is step two.  Probably a good 40 minutes.  I am liking it more and more.  I hope you enjoy it, too!

New finger painting, currently untitled...

15" x 12.5".  Acrylic on card stock.  I kinda like it.  Fun to get fingers into paint, too!

The beginning of an abstract...

This is the fresh beginning of a new abstract, about 30"x42".  It is about 30 minutes of work.  Ink & acrylic on canvas.  Wonder what it needs...

Newer abstract

Ball-Point Drawing...

I did this drawing a couple days ago in the morning, sitting in the sunlight in my bed.  It started as a drawing of a painting by my good amiga, Angie Brown (angiebrown.org), and became a trippy art nouveau-inspired oddity.  Needless to say, I loves it!

{ Rabbit, Run! } by Big Sway

Run, Rabbit, run!

South! South!

To suppress, merely (or more),

A mouth

Reaching out to be saved like a trapeze artist

& there is a bit of “net” in yr soulself  - a souse

A mouth, espoused toward Descartes

I think I think, I think

& therefore… what am I?

Guess one never really knows

Brain biased as gravity or grain

The battle of Fate vs. Free Will is rigged

Nobody can win

Bet on Voice & Eternity!

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the author runs you through some lines of text stylistic he hasn’t really experienced since his 2002 southern california flip trip year through san bernardino & riverside, with the dharma bums’ ray & the chateau on mt. vernon st. under the big C on the mountain desertscape dream bibliography aka real fiction, or some other non-innocuous nonsense didactic dreambomb

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Baby, baby, baby!

I want you, one two

Wanting for some, but not for a cunt

More, a wanting of Want

More for some unkempt trump

With a truepenny mind & a sumptuous rump

Under summum bonum

The greatest of supreme goods

The fruit of a woman

Ripe, like a bunt

A tripe love in-field double

A stunt for the light

The horizon in trouble from the hunt

The prey of the night

The pay for the trouble, light-drunk from the height

The fruit of a woman

The fight for the fun of it

Make a deal of it

Get over it

It’s un-won

Under a sun until one day’ll come

When sight aligns with the wonder of being lit like a candle

I see it all so biased-ly clear without context

Without smoke & mirrors but for insight…

Beveled eyes are pushed to be flush

2^nd rate vandals on a sinking vessel

Shining in the dark

Long lost in electrical light

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in a dream i had right at this moment i slumber as ice traipsing i from distant moment to distant moment laughing & crying in balmy abandon unable to abandon i reading the language of contradiction song bird cement slab i remember to take toys apart jack in the box with a screwdriver driving screws into my substrata a small crack lengthening horizon on windshield sky light the light i am off & on oscillating alternating currently in the sine wave pool audio and radio jacked conscious conscious consciousness with a big C the great i am or so i would seem this pronoun i to be my local theatre critic giving a fresh fate production an unfair shake in scope & making toast & eggs in free-will’s boxer shorts I a picture inside a picture inside a picture inside a picture inside a scripture inside a sacral pulse… pouting there like a sacred suture … gigantic as a mouse

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Blonde On Blonde plays from an ancient white on off-white Mac laptop

Dylan’s subaudition is tangy & anxiety is a peach pit

The organ is hunting for hips

The drums are dancing for an audience of feet souls

Strings are plucked with tacked fingertips underneath lily pads

I have a trusted veteran dictionary of a million-word war

Lying spread eagle on the dark, faux wood kitchen table

I am doing double duty

Painting Christmas gifts on the night of the 23^rd

 Working on new words for new insight & out

For today, the 28^th of December

In the year of our Lord, Santa Clause

& that cute punishment/reward structure of his

& his horrible iPod playlist

Full of self-aggrandizing lyrics

Ya know,

I am growing very wary of omniscient snow bearded

& largely fictionalized authority figures

Bearing eternal sweets & threats of unpleasantness-

Making a mockery of being good

Standardizing & marginalizing many a kind act

Robbed of the integrity of doing right, even when nobody is looking

I grew up bombarded by & embroiled in unrealistic sit-coms

& endless crap Hollywood drivel

I should have worn a helmet on my eyeballs

I can see how it’s an escape

I see it snowball into life on the run

I don’t seem to have much interest in my autobiography

My life is so slow & boring compared to 90% of television programs

I’m not scored very well

Wardrobe seems severely under budget

I don’t know where to buy a can of laughter

& I think I am a pretty decent narrator, though prone to diatribalism

& I think unrealism has become the new realism

How much entertainment is a cure?

How much entertainment is a poison?

I better Google it

I always thought Bukowski wrote medallion-level shitting poems

Ginsberg’s were as funny as a self-portrait of himself

Mine are better served behind a closed door with matches

Sandburg’s defecation would be democratic & smell like Chicago’s asshole

Saul Williams shit is TIGHT!

Senor Pablo Neruda’s would become anything but, perhaps…

A daily feeding of the world at-large or a bed of floral beauty

The great denominator

The inevitability of waste

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

Karma is in the recycling business

& Heaven’s offices are now based in Hollywood, C-A

Jesus Christ, the best storytellers generally get no press

Crucifixion via indifference

Yet, due to the power of the exception, I implore

Practice your freedom of speech

Say the things you are afraid to, because

Suppression gifts us acrid bouquets of power & viciousness

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If there is no ear around when a tree falls, there is no sound!  The sound of one hand clapping is a testament to the limits of the human sense organs.  Hands turn.  Organs are grinding.  Monkeys are singing & dancing.  Wet hand towels are twisting in steamy shower stalls.  Cymbals bang together.  Polaris is a birthday party, dripping in drifting lineage.  Shadows run across the ceiling like turning pages, again & again.  In between again & again turned pages, scenes of localized luminosity, animal lunacy & electrical spinal chords, serpentine like DNA.  I play a game of Candlyland & I don’t even need to be present.  I pull a cinnamon roll & take the lead.  Neck-in-neck.  Hands turn.  I’m playing 14 games of Candyland right now (& 8 games of War).  Strategy went out the window with controlled sobriety.  The grinding of the organs creates a groundswell of lurching monkeys, screaming & beat-boxing.  The DJ turns the tables deep in the discotheque.  Pilot flames, my eyes, flicker & lick my brainpan.  Gas is included in the rent, which allows you to keep it cooking.  Gears spin.  Cymbals bang together.

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Run, Rabbit, run!

Through a crowded field

The gift of not knowing

Makes you uncatchable

Better as sport

Ever alert

To threats hemming in greatness

Yourself, solipsistic agitator

Through a crowded field of self

The gift of not knowing

Everyone together & alone

Each & every I:

The way the truth & the light

Joneses be damned!

Amen….