Tuesday, January 29, 2013

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!

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

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...

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

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!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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
-       - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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
2nd rate vandals on a sinking vessel
Shining in the dark
Long lost in electrical light

-       - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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 23rd
 Working on new words for new insight & out
For today, the 28th 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

-       - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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.

-       - - - - - - - - - - - -

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!