September 8, 2017



Peter Sellers (9/8/1925-7/24/1980)



I heard a ways back/that the actor Peter Sellers/stormed off a set/(a clunker cliche’/”stormed” as a verb)/That Sellers acted up, disturbed/by all that was wrong when a man in the crew/

wore green and purple.

Sellers balked at doing the scene and walked off/quite mad./Purple and green./An omen of death,I guess/not for you/

Edgy artist/Peter felt put out enough about it/the stuperstition thing/to blurt it/stand by it/insistassuming others to buy it.

Stuperstitious/I’m edgy/it just doesn’t hurt./Tonight I wear my purple tee shirt/The one I sport under my sportjacket For and at my favorite Art concerts/ My sisters…/

my snug Mr Greenjeans, and Airwalks are on/I ride on a stride so fucking strong/

soundsynch on my full ON! phone/

juju mon/ Rajiohead/ Could carry me dead on.



(from 2009)



January 11, 2016


bowie does Jacque Brel in 73/ RIP, M’MainMan














February 5, 2014

It would serve him fine no doubt

As a temporary fix

(Until she found him out)

Him; an impure two-fisted noir caricature

Deaden dampening 30 thirsts

Certainly fully filling out his lies to lines to pages to prayers purged

(Yet not nearly all urged out)

It would serve no doubt as a temporary fix

He’s a master at  bait n switch

Sleight  of  hand

It’s his bloodline

He’s a man’s man of a man behind his  curtains

Pay him no mind


November 26, 2012







I fear I forget that  the frail,

nearly unable, but

when from a whisper of will,…

when they muster an incalculable

measure of Reach

to straighten, and lean up

for what’s due

That’s a lot to wait for


The  freshest  thing in the clearing

by the pond’s sunk boat,

near a nest, There’s this ringing

drop, I thought,   just now  dotting

one leaf, left,  just new

by the dew

That’s what I wait for


,                   (i)

No stranger is entering the room.

(I’ve thought of it a thousand times)

A final scene , in frozen zoom.


A muskscent  from a love above, yet menstrual metallic.

A  joke on angelic.

She drapes my drawn face. damp.

I shapen  long words for my last breaths and

She thrusts  every page I’d saved.

(stark boy to dark man/ all my sacred words)

She threw every page down (after waving them around).

And in sacred words of her own,

“Read  ’em  and  weep”

Then blessed  her lips

Onto  mine.



a friend of a friend, on the phone,

she shared a sharp poignant piece of her.

Sharp & important to her. It pierced me to hear.

Death bed of her dear friend,

Whispering   from the Mystic,

He gathered his loves up…


and asked if his paintings were boxed up.







Dayna Kurtz

January 27, 2011

I can’t get enough of this one–ms. Dayna Kurtz


If you do like me and you sometimes see that you’re waistdeep immersed in a coupla  books simultaneously

I’ll recommend two (2) that in some way complement each other. On some level they work,    next door, for me.

   Artist/performer Patti Smith’s “Just Kids” is a sweet memoir and a tribute, I think, to her soul partner, the late Robert Mapplethorpe. I say sweet  because Patti’s voice is soft & clear throughout, its tenderness pervades her storytelling and her passions for things spiritual (Art, Music, God). Her courage to leave her loving family home without nearly enough money to go to NYC and to brave the obvious challenges for a new start there. Her  quest to make it as an artist and the creative heights it may lead her to, will demand much for her climb.

She’s resilient, courageous, passionately faith-filled, and tender.  You root for her, and Robert.


Another approach..not defined enough to root for..another journey is artist/performer Sam Shepard’s  “Day Out Of Days”.  Sam’s voice undercurrents his prosaic tales as he wanders America’s not-so-well-known highways, 2 lane blacktops, less beaten paths. The characters that use them, like the author himself, are characters indeed.

Instead of Patti’s exalted & reverential renderings of a majestic world where young artist gods stumble into a future where  something/anything can happen…Sam is one hardened cynic, one stoic watcher of  human folly and  devastation around him (including the guy in the mirror). He eloquently tells his short troubled tales (nightmares almost) with too few words that expand & expound on too much.  His dismal, beautiful glimpses raise many questions, while raising consciousness.

One book is fueled by a cool hope, another by a warm hopelessness. These two authors, in another world, another time…fiction & non-fiction, primal female & male spirit,  just might had found their opponents attractive,    as I have.

how Art thou? Do you drink from the deep sink of inspired creations at an art museum, gallery, or maybe a street art fair on a street near you?sometimes?
Do you have something on one of your walls that you could only fall for?
And, can’t help but stare?
It’s an important thing,dontcha think?
It has been from an early age for me.
I’m told that soon after I found my father who had killed himself (the Hemingway), while all the distraught adults who knew & loved him were off balance with emotional & practical adjustments (like selling the house and moving on)
a forgotten first son had got into several paint cans and expressed quite a colorful statement on the backside of the new house for sale.
I was perched high for me
in a pinepitchtree
and waited out what I did
as I watched our house’s back side
where I painted from all the paint cans
stacked out back. Though very new plans
made us move away from that life.
Daddy had died and left that life.
Somebody and something could only cover
that work.


a french girl with hair from the girl in Breathless
was our art teacher that visited
Miss Blue’s 3rd grade class,
and liked my painting so much
she asked if she could take it
for a contest, or a book she was working on.
The blurry greens and blacks,
browns and blues was a ship in a storm.
I never saw it again but
somebody and something could only recover
that work.

still, tie me to the mast.


I must get the next good grasp
still, the next limb up
to see some.