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….

Take er Easy!

“Our individuality is all, all, that we have. There are those who barter it for security, those who repress it for what they believe is the betterment of the whole society, but blessed in the twinkle of the morning star is the one who nurtures it and rides it in, in grace and love and wit, from peculiar station to peculiar station along life's bittersweet route.” -Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

Got to love that square format!

Another one of my messy-any-kid-can-do-that style of abstract art pieces.  Want to say it's about 10"x10".

I like faces. Faces, faces, faces...

{ Heart In A Diving Bell } by Big Sway

Our love is deeper than the situational

Beyond the trends of the mortal mind

Beyond moments tied in bows of timelines

We are energy of Velcro variety -

A face constructed of distraught yesterdays

& immutably grand futures -

Two needles in a haystack

Flotsam in a field of debris left by hubris

Of a deed as selfish as loving another, wholly

& with no expectations

You are so angelic

With yr derelict youth, scarred

Drinking under bridges with ratty white beards

Running from yr heart

Stained, sullied & deified with love for a dead-man

You were so vacant when I needed you most

My heart was heavy as a glacier under yr monster indifference

But a wiser artist than I saw

That in opinion/truth, I was something more than the status quo

You were never a slut,

You just listened to others too much…

I want to see nothing but yr beautiful face ascending

Past my station

Past my sadness

To a place of complete self-love

A place past me

You don’t need to work for other’s love -

Yr a dynamo that masses bathe in

You love yrself

& I love yr love

So fully

That my heart breaks apart

Every time I think about my death

& the things I’ve let slide

Left unsaid

By the roadside

I’ve been in love with you since we first met

Going around & around

Around

& around

Pretty soon

(1 to 70 years, hitherto…)

I’ll be dead

Pretty soon

So will you…

Finished Poem read at Ugly Mug's Madhouse Poety Series last month...

I go through so many feelings in a minute…

Thoughtfulness, sleepiness, beatitude… having to shit

I am sick with clever words-

Life is the leading cause of death

Death is a pathway to dissipating energy

Down the food chain swirly slide

To the lowliest, most indispensable beings

Beyond humanity

To life anew & anew

Who and what I THINK I am is so unimportant to the universe

But you can’t really LOOK to the universe for your importance -

Hell, I can’t even pin down my existence!

Being is the queerest of loitering, jowled cats, I gather

But becoming, WOH!

Be careful the serrated teeth - living on a slippery slope ‘n’ all-

Becoming is inevitable, as thee most pro-Bono human sings,

“WITH OR WITH OUT YOOOOOOOU”

Closer to a lunar verse, I chronicle my cycles - I see

Overlapping fields of vibration, each at it’s own frequency,

Wash o’er me and singularities encourage me

To the angelic savagery of spontaneity

There is always the fear of systems breakdown

Between the differing communication codes & commands…

May the good Lord have mercy on the fuzzy logic

(The bad Lord is on time-out in his bedroom on this night of the ball,

& just for nobly breaking his own commandments -

JUST for filling out the dark side of the princess’ slipper -

The vanity of schizophrenia)

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Ever notice…

A question mark looks a bit like a hook for a period?

Does the declarative hang under the question?

Do questions stand on the declarative?

Look how spacious the big, little questions we have are!

I will live in these enormous rooms

Till the walls fall down like shells from my eyes

In time, in time

Answers are dead things - bury them in the garden

Questions, duly, spring from those rotting answers

On a sure-train migration back to death’s hibernation

The fibrous, nutritional value of questions

Is necessary for yr mental digestion

As everyone knows, don’t answer where you question

Answers poison the well

With a blind ear to the power of suggestion

It’s all enlighteningly stupefying

The open door has been there my whole life

Until it became wallpaper & I forgot all about it…

The soul hungers not because it’s full of lacking

The soul hungers from an empty abundance

I hope, like me, you all have an inkling of what a soul is -

I see it as that solitary part of me that touches everything

Communes in pure sound

Pure music

Pure color

Pure form

Confused in vibrations between the will & the sub-will,

Those Siamese twins separated at a very early age

(& that’s just MY abstraction of it,

Transmitted BY abstract languages

Filtered through YOUR squishy, grey abstracting unit

& even that is an assumption

& even you are an assumption)

Yet…

That is no good reason to be sad

I still can see you dancing like a rolling wave

Affronting Salvationists in front of a spinning sky

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This is not an iPod for an iPod

Blue-Tooth for a Blue-Tooth

Snoop Dogg eat Snoop Dogg kind of world-

This is a world where the sly get ahead

& the simple-minded are easily led

Where’s the justice in a child unfed?

Justice is revenge dressed in absolution dressed in cold-blood red

As I put the words together, the thoughts fall apart

Like light through a prism

Like innocence in prison (innocence is destroyed by it’s proof thereof)

As I put thoughts together, words crawl into art

& sleep

& dream

Seeping through that nocturnal seam

In which the dreams reciprocally assert

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My dreaming’s breath - baited lakes

Guitars play electronic butterfly songs

A lone cutter cried long snakes

Into & out of jazz connotations, elated

Looking like an early belated birthday present

A query in a mask of demands, not meant

A tumble of words - falling snatches of snow

The sound, the patter

Grey matter turned inside-out into patches of soul

The ground, the laughter,

The shark-tooth noogie boogie

The acoustic two-stroke brain trust

A name thrust into a role

A lyrical tryst between the absurd & it’s opposite pole

Painting new pictures of rust

Pictures of a smile, undressed & under duress

Sounding off, like an alarm, the loudest soft caress

Pressing an outgoing nose to the imaginary pane

To the clear and clearly insane

Or framed, we play the same sane games

To see who laughs first

To see who laughs last

Pour wax in your ears & tie me to the mast

I want it all & I want all the rest

If it’s all the same, I’ll fly the nest

& expand outwardly in concentric circles

Sweeping time-space for glow-worm holes

Looking for truth and whatever it doles

Knee-deep in heady honeycombs

All ready to rock ‘n’ roll

This life is rhythm & blues

No, you can’t multi-track

& you can’t get a back catalogue

This poem’s just a ruse

An amusingly confusing attempt at suffusing musing

Into an ugly worldview, coolly cruising for a bruising

Ripe with prison walls

Ripe for a rising fall

Wrought from music & noise

Wrought from abstraction & voice

I stand self-accused

As the gavel falls, already abused

The jury unloads

“NOT GUILTY,” the cries

I wipe sleep dust

Like a teardrop

From my ravenous eyes

I stand self-amused

Myself, I’m beside

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Whatever it means, we’re still alive

Wildflowers blooming in a field of knives