nesting secrets

These graphic/art/word combos are such fun to do. Reminds me why I had an interest in advertising all those years back. I love the marriage of art and word. Thank you.

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spiders’ bacchanal

A spiders’ bacchanal down here
Eight-legged thespians skirting about
across the faux wood of my desk and underfoot on the beige mahalo
These onyx-backed beasts don’t give me the wicked respect I crave
Rather the opposite, they mock my rage
They rappel down sateen webs with the grace of silken ballerinas,
while I clumsily produce vague sand traps like a common ant
The warm April sun is out today
It mocks me too
The light pushes in, I do not see it
I do not want it to touch me
The basement is winter cold and autumn damp
With every bulb powered, it remains oppressive
My excuse for non-producing spinnerets
Spiders are flippant and insensitive creatures
an abundance of legs, but they do not help me walk
a treasure trove of eyes, yet my vision is unclear
They do not direct words
They do not produce art
They do not manage feelings
Am I a thespian like my spiders
Acting out in moments of blank banality–no better than a two-legged starlet with a bug up her ass

I must curtail my ‘creative passions’
No reliance on fake scuttling muses
A maturation must come with webs of fire
or they are out-of-control things, to be snuffed out
ripped apart for catching bad karma
I sometimes play the fool
I sometimes age wisely
Whenever my son chastises me for behaving like a child,
I sometimes behave like an adult

and the spiders laugh at me in mimicries of silver slandering

what are you

you share things you’ll never say
you say things you’ll never do
you are a writer
you covet the people behind the lies
your hungry lips crave their nourishing minds
you are a reader
thoughts shove down your fingers like garbage disposals
you sadly acknowledge huge amounts of crap
you are a writer
you bulldoze the landfill to uncover their trash
you desire arousal sleeping in their dreams
you are a reader
you beg dark thoughts to channel sensual tongues
you choke wordless nightmares to asphyxiation
you are a writer
you fearlessly divulge intimate details
without pause, you breathlessly seek their approval

you are a –

what are you
do you have a choice

skeleton stallion

skeleton stallion

sketched this guy last year while on a school subbing lunch break

just passing above the middle

I am 53. Just passing above the middle, should I hit 100. I’d most enjoy cliff leaping in the saddle of a ’56 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible. Metallic silver and yes, big ass whitewalls–are there any other kind. If I make it to the other side, goodie for me. If that Caddie craves a good old-fashioned swan dive–feel its metallic skin synchronize with the sun, far be it from me to begrudge a classic its last butt kickin’ ride. Blaze away on fumes of glory–odiferous but bright. At the end of this particular road, don’t want anything else but that Caddie’s brilliant grill smiling in my cheesy face.

So here’s the thing about passing just above the middle. I’m a painter sometimes. Not always. Not often enough. Words seem to flow more (lately) off my cheap brushes than grade-two level paint. The good stuff, authentic pigments magicked with fine mediums are out of my studio basement league. And if we’re waxing oils, nothing ever more brilliant hit gessoed linen. Long ago the art person hiding in my head bought a big ass white canvas–is there any other kind. This 5′ x 4′ blank rectangle partially disappeared behind a bedroom dresser. The rest was concealed by a painting done ages ago when I wasn’t drowning in midnight words.

Change has been hanging out with me. He can be an overbearing bastard and so enjoys boxing ears. He’s been asking all sorts of questions lately. When you’re passing just above the middle, you have more questions than answers. All along, you’ve been sucking in a portfolio of answers. Hit the alarm clock and drive into a day of questions and answers. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Until change dude starts banging you from behind. He wants to know what will satisfy you now. Really get you down deep in your sweet spot. You’ve done many things already. Some stuff has been figured out. A few hidden memories still flush red. What is it you really want? What is it you haven’t done yet?

My mind is blank but I need to get this guy off my back–he’s a load. Then sometimes things come together. My first just-passing-above-the-middle epiphany. Mind blank. Blank. Blank canvas. I’m a painter sometimes. Not always. Not often enough. I haven’t touched gorgeous oils in awhile. In my 53 years of living, I have never painted an ocean.
first ocean

so here she is, my first ocean, not quite finished, need to hit a few more spots, used no reference images just a wing and a prayer and lots of eye squinting, waiting until change dude eases up a bit

 

 

sweating glass

it took an old southern rock bar band
a switch from wine to gin and tonic
and the recollection of a childhood memory
to swallow a dream starting to slip slide on thin summer ice
chilled to near perfection once, the dream
the gallant aspirations striking a spark at one’s heels
“why”
love
always there, the love
passion–an over-used word, I call into service here
I want to write about me (without you knowing)
I want to write about you (and think it’s me)
I want to create boulevards and labyrinths,
defeat, victory and the people that fall to both
friends, lovers torn apart, maybe connected in twisting alleys
plain flat features and sculpted bullshit
forbidden denizens
I want to go down the creepy hall and
have my right hand make the left open the door
but the most honest excuse
I’ll place here (bear in mind I got in very late last night)
if I don’t sit beneath the light at 4 am with a pen
I won’t be any good to anyone
so many of us have this story
we happily summon up this creative nightmare
it is not a bad dream but a wickedly feisty journey
across dark boulevards
sipping my midnight refreshing gin and tonic
the sweating glass slipping in my hand a bit
listening and watching the band
they were decent as bar bands go
around people drinking, laughing, texting
four band members
wasn’t a gig worth the pay
wasn’t worth the hot lights, sweat and beer stench
(and there’s that Jackson Brown song)

and the token rude person or two in the crowd
they–the magnificent four, simply loved what they did
not the hot lights, sweating, drunkards, texters, talkers, laughers
and
there was the flash memory of a childhood diary
a little worn book “accidentally” left out for my five sibs
so they might read
my words

Oscar E. Hornse

the other thing I adore–monsters, this guy drawn last year
happy Sunday:)

swimming on the soil

in the series of liquid drops that fall from the sky
I draw a puddle of the world
a crystal ball to sieve my thoughts
universal ramblings sometimes shimmer
here within this watery dimple
beneath the shallow surface
deep dissonance
my sonar, far from a bat’s
still can locate earthen skin
hair bronzed by morning light
eyes ocean aqua
and a heart not quite complete
tears I believe to be mine
join their brothers and sisters
swimming on the soil
early summer winds shove the late spring clouds into the sun
the puddle washes into black
my crystal ball collapses

the funny thing is
when the sunlight returns
you’ll completely disappear
and the only thing that can save you now
are the puddles in your own head

mint eyes

mint eyes

heaven or hell

it’s probably a big mistake to be pressing these keys right now
there are so many things pressing inside my chest
is it possible to come out of this
as one person with one dream
when everything leading up to the dream is fantasy
the impressionists began as an anonymous group
maybe I could be unknown
a founding member of the “what the hell” group
we could laugh and never care
about anything until we have to
and at that point we’d only need worry about two options
no more than that
heaven or hell
I’d simply select
which ever one has the best wine list
and maybe a tattoo parlor

Angel Cone

beneath those shoulders

the shoes beneath those shoulders
can’t find a way back
faces perplex
especially your own
failing to recognize
too familiar eyes that have shown you the world
in your small space
and when smiling out there
they hold in other things
you are not who they think you are
but you were yesterday
or so they would have you believe

perhaps tomorrow
you will be someone else
or maybe
the shoes beneath those shoulders
will point homeward on loose gravel

Blue Tale

Blue Tale


this blue guy is a friend to all:)