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….

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…