amen.

what's wrong with you is wrong all the way through you.

i painted this little fella tonight and realized about three quarters the way into that he was UNQUESTIONABLY FUCKED.

sometimes that's just how life goes, i reckon.

everything and all...

one great majestic.

enter one great majestic to the lit stage of the BROKEN SITCOM

present
to empty out one's little self
at the 'shed-fort' area in the inner goon sanctuary

(host's question)

what brought you to this place

a hogfarm scratch-n-sniff

to smell the hunger pang of
your poker-face


repent no
repeat
all of your little sins
the ones daddy taught you
when you were just a little kid

(insert laugh track here)

(into a song-n-dance number with a tuxedoed boy lost under a top hat
singing to his fat mother who is planted to couch
in a stained nightie watching wheel of fortune)

"this little light of mine
burns out these little eyes of mine
i can't see your foolish ways
when you have bawdy day with me

you are pieces of the dunce's hat
crowned to my head like whale fat
i will tear you free from me
when i leave here eternally"

(she replies with a tune of her own
in a different key)

"the rusty wind-chimes ...of my heart
feedback with hiss ...all night long
you stand too close to the static...
of my loooooove"

a black song for credits of this sitcom

there will be a dildo-flogging for good ratings come sweeps week
and by season's finale
one great majestic will pretend to be stranded in the mountains again
choking on the meat of a cougar's paw

sputtering for an emmy
the lines

" why didn't daddy cut his sex so he'd have no child to think of
when i'm old enough i will cauterized my sex to satisfy
my selfish ways."

(insert stunned silenced here
followed by uproarious applause)

bored at dinner (three napkin doodles)

put a smile on your painted face you dirty sister

my most prized possession

my grandfather (mother's dad) was a political cartoonist for a small kansas newspaper in the mid-thirties. i don't know many details about the man (he died a couple years before i was born) but i've been told by my mother that i've inherited a handful of traits from him--a love of drawing being one of the more prominent.

when i was in my late teens my mom gave me a sketchbook that he composed back in 1924 (my grandfather would have been 19 years old at the time). the drawings inside are sublime and rendered with such a lightness and ease of touch that my heart aches at their innocent beauty. with each image i feel i learn a little bit more about my roots, his era and true artistic integrity.

despite being gone for over 35 years, i feel he can directly communicate to me through his lines...and in turn, i sometimes try to do the same with my work for him.

he was a natural draftsman to the highest order and i long to create drawings with but a shred of his grace and soft-spoken expertise.

SLEEPING UNDER THE CURSE.

i'm trying to kill myself in my sleep.
slowly.

i've just figured it out after another extremely difficult night of arduous twisting and turning and waking multiple times. for the last few months, at least once per night, i will struggle awake with my forearm pressed firmly into my face completely covering up both of my breathing holes. other times i find myself desperately gasping for air from an inherited case of apnea (a sleep disorder characterized by pauses in breathing during sleep. each episode, called an apnea lasts long enough so that one or more breaths are missed, and such episodes occur repeatedly throughout sleep.)
The interesting thing is that i started noticing this significant sleep disruption the day after christmas...the very day my 86-day (and counting) brain fog set in. december 26 is also the same day i decided to move my bed from one room in my apartment to another more 'logical' location in what had previously been my art studio. i also hung the 2007 shamanic drawing- 'curse, the medicine' -above my bed that day.

what does this all mean? is it just an uncanny string of odd coincidences? or is it possible i just might be sleeping under a curse of my own making that has been triggered to life by its hanging in this room...?

dicking about.

even if you were the last motherfucker left

and through this desperation there are wings and there is a snare

baby.

i want to beaver.

the fixins

flick the switch, cut up the light
what's inside? "don't want to know"
lick her palm, it's already salt
read god's fist, her name's inside

hollow god's lips into dead worms
make them straws and snort your drugs
we are origami shapes in the rain
my language is turning black again.

flick the switch to turn back time
look at me writhin' round yr life
pierce my head with your precious look
pull my heart thru the grave you've dug

open up the thick parlor doors...
where your dreams consume the old dirt,
black-n-white checkered glossy floors
to stage the hissing and the trashing--

orchestrate your fictions now...
from the chaos of love's ashes
sleepy pride creates the cancer
that will eat through all of us!

artists will paint pictures of you
poets will write poems about you
sirens will sing songs for you
they will tell their children your lies

horse-head raise the baby high
in your mouth he will turn to light
from god's tooth falls a rabbit's toe
fortune's gone, you're all alone

the builder

love tumor

what the curse looked like?

why won't my brain work?

please lord ...

yesterday's hero, today's goat.

fable

the fable is etched into the surface of your skin as ornate calligraphy on a first place trophy
or maybe with the upright formality of letters saved for a gravestone.

it is a hand-me-down sea that could sink a thousand rickety ships.

it is a sky reflected off another sky at the horizon line of fire.

it is a dog carcass at the edge of a ditch festering in the bustle of maggot-activity.


the cuts of your body have become scars that are words in the braile of our language,
i touch your flesh to read the saddest story i've ever known...
your illness began the day i was born.

"THEY DID A NICE JOB ON HIS FACE."