There was a point, a bunch of years ago, when I did not paint, instead I wrote. I filled volumes of empty books that I'd bought at the thrift store with streaming words of nonsense. I rarely go back to look at them and I haven't written anything in ages, but I think I will start posting some of these odd jumbles of words here...
however the get to going is laid out
a butter day is always on the other side
some behind shoulder ghost smirks
as you tumble into scented hallways
and then someone takes your hand
for the first time in forever
and suddenly, you are on the other side.
you can take the side street ice way
down into warm jungles of freeway sweet talk,
you can melt the zero day
into a boiling pulling ocean,
the scrappy face of what time has taken
might drag bottoms
like sandy abandon
til sunlight seems like your last dream
a begging hungry child,
but you will never swim
we’re down riding the city
taking cold breathes of curb side junk
waking all the regulars
and screwing up the night.
there’s the tiny boat out far
watching with a blind little face
and with a cold water bed he waves
autistic bobbing in one place.