Wednesday, June 24, 2015

It had always been that way

It had always been that way
Our people soaked in pain
Creeping along that path
Never crossing that river
Never hugging the bush
It has mostly been that 
both then and now and tomorrow
Our teeth will become powder
Our fist burst into flow
What we do and don't are desires rule
And now just a puddle 
Now just a cup of tea 
An infant can drown by either
I love you shitty me -you the fuck of us all 
I will remember our dirty lousy hell 
with plant life and sweet insects and the lies between our ears
I will recall the flicker riding from flame to flame flicker
Passing in and it
pure up and up and gravity trickle low
In the time of twisted bones and goitered flesh 
Smiles so large 
they make you cry in private places
Fashions metal steel iron
geometric down runways flanked
Livers, kidneys, intestines
How do you mend a severed head
And what kind of jewel is appropriate
and how many pills does it take

And will the shades blank blank the shadows whole

Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Fighting Book

Many of these pages come from my time spent at the MacDowell Colony and Headlands Center for the Arts.

First Stanza

First stanza
is something about desire.
Why fear the dreadful words
never meant for a poem.

A yawning accommodates
the souls dirty mark.

In the distance
I see an assembly.
And I know that house quite well-
the dynastic of jumble and maladroit.

The blueprint is love-
whose erection is a creeper-
with rungs made
of evanescent sluices

And night pines
the dominance of grief’s
habitual stair-case. 

And all and all
   and all.

The friendliest vein
of stratum
is a cool and brightless

This is not me!
This is not me!
Not what I am!

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Yucatan Zine

This is an older zine I made with Suzanne Goldenberg during a visit to Mexico.

A quick ipad drawing for a sculpture that I ended up makeing for an oudoor exhibit here in Bushwick.
I wrote this a couple of days ago at my apartment in Brooklyn.

The books
are no longer held
with staples or tape.

Gospel today
fills the soul
like glue
from a Wonder Bread bag.

Like the photography of some vital
A passing of traitor -
disappearing the early morning

The gelatin silver print blisters
with foresight.

A reflex assumption.

One perilous lineage
hooked by clairvoyant creations-
only to defecate the denial of truth:

The dying beast is your child,
your demon,
 your God.

If your interested to read more check out my poetry Blog:

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Shan Traditional Tattoo Manuscripts I picked up in Myanmar.

The first two I found in Naung Shwe and the last one (with red ink) is from Bagan, Myanmar.