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Friday, July 3, 2020


Giving thanks.

No photo description available.

Saturday, June 13, 2020

This must have been written around 1987 or so, when minivans were in. Found in a copper bin full of old maps and cell phones. It was very popular to have at least one child at this time.



Comfort van

dark sides, cool inside,
big, enormous, comfort size.
You big, unfair protector 
of the meek and small of mind.
Small of mind. A little animal you possess
fits inside the chair that fastens onto your enormous spread.
Davenport of vinyl. Soft and noiseless. 
Cushions on your fanny, on your head. On your head.
Can you see? Out of those windows, black?
Can you drive it? Tiny arms, little legs. Vest of cotton,
and pinball head? How can you? Isn't it too big for you?

The tiny animal does not cry 
when you take it from the playground
to your comfort van.

Monday, June 8, 2020

Sunlight


The sun is naive, every morning.
Raking over the coals of night.

Looking for a surface that will liven unity, as far as we know.

Scattering its volcanic delicacy onto every sound.
How wise are they?

 

Partial ecstacy.          ball point pen, watercolor, pencil and colored pencil on paper, 6/3/2020

Wednesday, May 6, 2020






   Submerged hairpin with inability to swim. 

     (watercolor & colored pencil, 2020)




 


Charnal slumber in the Summer of unmitigated stench, one electric outlet, and an undeviated septum.    

 


This was the 4th of July.
Spent on floorboards,
ancestral murder, blood of once living rodents, waxed flat. 
Red blob swirls, sunk onto cold exit pipe: a small ghost. 
Is it mine?

Precisely one achievement, spawned from duelling soliloquies, fighting a fight that could not be won.

Burning flies by candle light. 
And out they go.
That summer, like all others.
The monumental inability, the
impermissible contentment.
The silenced fireflies and bats.

The blood flushing out of stabbed ribs; the 4th of July. The day that was the same as all other days.


          (linoleum cut, monotype, on paper, 2019)



 


Saturday, August 31, 2019

 

Olive oil

 

The silence (so loud). The person, tenuous.
The locked gates.

 

The impossible amusement.
The lack of water. The insatiable thirst.
The cats that are the same, day after day.
The butter being bad for you.
The olive oil and salt.

  

 

 

 

MAEBEL.

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If only I could be like Maebel

The dog was well-educated, 

well-schooled in the weight of existence, the strength of will. 

An absolute master.

The dog was well-bred, as if raised by ancients. 

The dog was self-sufficient and not needy.

Not hesitant, and not uncertain.  Strong, concise, hefty.

The dog was not self-conscious in the least, but broke consciousness with others.

The dog did not feel obligated to smile, or beg for approval.

The dog possessed a stronghold on contentment, held with iron-clad toes

No doubts about its own importance. 

The dog was built of love that could not be destroyed.

I was trying to be less afraid of its heavy leather tail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, September 1, 2017


The Rump of Notoriety departs, with its false cloak of pigment

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Stag : series I (White Hart).

 
ODE TO A SONNET



As sad as thou hast whispered to my time,
and focused thy sweet care abreast of mine;
As thou hast let my wandering shadow slip and climb
along the very street thou in thy soul design.

So sad the figure wandering on the hill,

that it has wandered out of shape, and wanders still...


The variance of thy love, no substance makes,
For there be little of the seed in dark and dew.

The more thy pliance gives, the more it takes,
until the black o'erspreads the field from which it grew.


Alas the hillside, shivering and bare
That with her fading love, did leave me there.





Stag : series I (wall hanging).






Friday, July 15, 2016

Stag : I



Music Hall.



Monday, May 16, 2016

Escorting Beauty to the Underworld.






ESCORTING BEAUTY TO THE UNDERWORLD

Beauty fell on Midnight dreary
Leg of lamb had stood her up,
Walked with her into the darkness
(held her hair when she threw up).

Guiding her, as one deservéd, foot by foot, on tiptoes curled.
Leaning, sliding, moving forward, onward...
to the execution.
None as loving, none,
as trusted,
escort to the Underworld.



Monday, September 21, 2015

 

Generation.

 

















                                                                                                        


Somewhere, a female
insect knows.

Euphoric defecation on a seam of garment.
Ash to ashes,
dust to dust.

Leave your children there, as she does.
Born a louse, to bleed her fetus.
Death is anger, hunger, slaughter,
writhing, swirling, laying eggs.

Scratching at the great hereafter,
Death inherits birth and laughter.

Fiddling with a small disaster,
laughing at her hairy legs.


Sunday, July 7, 2013

Poem.


I DO NOT HAVE



I do not have a tub with legs
to soothe your brittle bones.
I have a house in Camelot
with bricks of lucky stones.
A stallion grazes near its walls
with mane as white as silk.
He feeds on sordid tumbleweed,
and churns it into milk.
He drinks from out a silver trough
which daily doth he fill
all with this creamy liquid
underneath our window sill.
I fain would ladle you a glass
but dare a drop I take,
the slow, kind horse grows nervous
and my lucky house may break.

1970s

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Friday, November 11, 2011

- - - - -

Chicken little

Chicken little wept alone
To mourn his troubling fate.

He fed his worm a catfish,
and put a nickel on his plate.

Waitress washed their counter
and unsewed them with her eye.

Coin slid down her bosom,
while her heels, as if to stop it,
stitched a shuffled, terse reminder of her presence,
'cause she didn't want to wait to see him cry.

Arm upon the shoulder
of the precious worm, his friend.
Consoles his wiggly cousin
That they will not squirm in dust beneath park swings in summer's heat.
Nor fear be trod on at a moment's glance
by deaf, confounded, dumb, enormous drums of human feet.

And in good fellowship they sat,
and sat a fortnight there and more
Perched on wound up stools
at their table.

'til they intruded from their public sockets,
out the door.

= = = = =

Friday, June 17, 2011

Sketch of John Davenport (1970)

father

Monday, July 27, 2009

Exhibition entrance.

Friday, July 17, 2009