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HerSmiletheScentColoredRoses : Her Smile is the Scent of Colored RosesShe wandered inthrough the door Ileft ajarsomehow I expected hertonightand it was latemy lights were onthe silk draperyflung across the back of a chairwaiting for pauseand movement.She was younger then me,intriguedis what she said,by my work at night.She smiled as sheundid her robeand handed it to meand her smilethe scent of colored rosesfilled the roomand I understand nowthe misty subterranean heatof Haleakalahow it rose from the bubbling seaPeleand I wanted my sex purified by waterand I wanted her sex purified by fireand the devastation and the creationof elementis what the morning windthrough white shear curtainpainted tonight.
HerSmiletheScentColoredRoses
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IntoTheReal : 7/2009 Watercolor on canvas 30”X40”   Darling I’m moving more Into the real The wind moved me today And did not blow right through me I realized a leaf My arms grew strong I could sense the smell of you Through all these bifurcations of me The colors like pink and ocean aqua   I think maybe there are various forms Various levels of being This morning I woke up And the world looked the same Only it was more of the world Then I could touch before With just the dust Of my memory   And so I use these hands To gather dirt And water And I’m growing flowers For you Right out of my emptied head   And I look for you now Because I want to perceive You seeing me for the first time    
IntoTheReal
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Point of Assembly : Watercolor on Canvas 24X36"It's at some pointjust behind the right shouldera place where we are taughtto fix attentionand there it coalesces.Last night it shiftedand I flew out of thethird floor window,saw my daughterand her friendentering the back doorbelowI stood on the wall outsidewatchinglike a clowndoing some stupid stunt,a trick,because everyone knowsI can't really walk on wallsbut somehow Ithink I couldimagine swimmingin warm living waterunder the night wirethe spotlights passingoverheadthe illicit wet flowingover new white skinlike liquid breathcaresses.I'm thinking that maybethis shifting is whatwe did before wefell off of the wallbefore all of the king's horsesbefore all of the king's menmadethis assemblythat maybe I shouldjustfall againlike maybe it's betterto be be brokenand shifting the dreamthen fixedand steel.Is this real?
Point of Assembly
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ChacoCanyonNightLight : Chaco Canyon Night Light19"X25" India Ink, Bee's Wax and Pigment on folded paperI dreamed of pink desert highways,night sweatwindows open and the fan making airplanenoise,with a night light onimagined the red glowing eyesof devilswith whip tails and dark leather wingscowboys with white hats,white horses,night lightsstarsand the moneychangersare thrown outand the burnt bonesof the dry rainmakeris thrown into the kivawhere the night light is,where tears are too precious to rain,where the stone peopleare fired by the sunwhere they fallcrashing in giantnight noiselike god fellfrom a hotsummer nights bedimagining thathe was just a boywith a night light on.
ChacoCanyonNightLight
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Thundering Silence : India Ink, Bee’s Wax and Pigment on folded paper 25X19”   I steal from her, her silence, her title, her everything Which is really just wind and water and yes I agree I’m just a bag of wind and noise and nothing more and here is the but. But. What else are we here for? Yeah, it’s just a skin bag filled with hot air A little tiny basket hanging below With the sand man hanging in heavy bags A westerly wind and the heat in this skin bag Floating this vessel up a mountain it has no business being on   Well maybe noise is why we are here? We’re noisemakers and maybe hearing our own noise isn’t the point? Maybe there is some other point to the wind We gather behind the skin sails? We inflate the body, this dream of being And yes there is the gift of awareness The I am But yeah, who cares? Nobody And yet There is a reason Some moment Brief as it might be On one day Someone stands by a window looking out And they think Wow, that’s such a beautiful balloon All those colors sailing in the wind Someday I hope to be That balloon. And that thundering silence Calls a rain A rain That is ironically thirsty   On that day I hope it is a hot day Perhaps children are playing in the water And the thunder claps Announce the beginning And I fall.   But it could be winter, quietNo one sees And I float So white in a blue northern light.
Thundering Silence
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AnasaziWash : 14X20 Watercolor on Paper This isn't Kansas anymore and I didn't realize at the time that the house of rain somehow could with the right slant of the sun the summer solstice through aligned stones warmed by a heat they did not create across this line of sight and these clouds sliding across the skin it feels like just a few cells before they actually tough me counting the minutes between the thunder and the lightning. What is it about the sun shinning through the rain and where did all the color come from? when I thought rain was grey And the Anasazi wash oh it's a gutter alright a gutter like a summer thunder storm and the rain so cool I'm a boy in a bathing suit and the warm rain is rushing across summer lawns into the gutter rushing through my butt crack because I'm sitting here in the gutter in the summer rain sailing a paper boat to somewhere I have never known.
AnasaziWash
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Boy Of Wood : Bee's wax an pigment on canvas, plywood and roofing nails29 3/4 X 34"The stars were frozenno use in wishing this awayThe rain was relentlessBlue Ridge, Shenandoah Valleyswollen river where the path endedI lost her that dayshe said she just couldn't go onshe was tiredtoo much weighttoo coldtoo wettoo far to gotoo many tearsand what could I say to make her believe again,some reason to keep going?We lived togetherfor years afterwardsshe always in the next roomI could hear her breathing thereMaybe we only have a brief momentsome night when the stars align and maybe the day after that too,before we returnto being somethingmade out of wood
Boy Of Wood
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BridgeAtAnoNuevo : Bee's wax and Pigment on Paper 22"X30" They were away that weekend, another rodeo or something and so I managed some time on that September Saturday to drive down highway 1 to Ano Nuevo. There is a burned out tree on the side of the road marking the trail through the sand dunes, through valleys of sea grasses, the clouds sailing overhead casting shadows like birds in flight. I was alone but I felt her presence, like the dreams I had the night before I carried with me, like water with a wanderer. I return here often, like today on this dark November afternoon. And I don’t know why I left so late in the afternoon?Already the light is failing, having barely made its appearance at all, with the thick gray cloud cover. And I wonder about this old decaying bridge, the same bridge that Ben and I dropped maple seeds from, to watch them whirl and disappear into the creek below.Every bridge I come to I want to linger on, never quite sure if I should keep going, go back or just remain suspended between the two possibilities.
BridgeAtAnoNuevo
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Colortest : A color testlike when I holda buttercupunder your chinto see if youreally like butteronly this is not abuttercupperhaps it is aredor a pinklike your skinat night in thecandlelightand I can'treally seebut only feelthe softnessof your moistshoulder undermy cheekof the variegatedgreen likesunspots throughthe forest ceilinglike a Monetdancing silentlylike sailboatslike starstrailing offthrough twilightwishingthe warmthof sunof Saturdayscut grass scentas you openyour eyesto a day ofmatinees andthe madnessof pure imaginationof golden Naplesyellow fieldsof starry nightsswirlingabout oursitting quietlyreading the oldtorn booksof our youthoh and there is onemore color testit's that colorin the woodsstraight aheadunder the treesthe moonlightlighting a path tothe rightand you wantto walk into thelightbut you knowthe path is aheadand the coloris unnamedother then youknow the coloris yours,even if it isa bit darkwhen the moonlightis in your eyes
Colortest
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