in flash of dawn’s.. reflector
i do my best to deflect its harsh and recede to chrysalis n’ lick my eyelids sealed for more torpor,
but i can’t keep these new wings from testin’ out spread of their true span..
a concentrate of light sparks emergence
and next moment i’m, tearin’ down the curtains
i’m the lost moth flexin’.. pose in glass like some dope
to catch my butterfly. reflection
morning’s up. 😉
dawn thaws thru the, weaker links in fence
i beam so grateful god’s perplexed,
for all sky’s toasty, tasty bold caffeinated contents,
tho i’m empty and still frozen
just gimme five ticks.. under this sweet lamp
i’ll be your Mr. Pink in Purple leather pants
n’ when i blow my Icy Blues at you
you’ll feel all, feathers
til Big Red grabs my sack and bleeds his gashin’ glance,
any chance White & Black made up? heard their weddin’ DJ spun quite the dance.
collection of random shots i took and doctored over the past week or so.
I rarely step outside my poems and pictures to share and in this time of uncertainly and evolution of our collective consciousness, but here goes. I want to take my thoughts, ideas, passions in some new directions and I find that doing so alongside the brains of others can be rewarding. If any of you deeply creative spirits wish to collaborate on any kind of creative venture, don’t be shy and come a’ knockin’. I’m rarely as confounding in collaboration as my own compositions may suggest and play it pretty fair.
So, if you have any interest in puttin’ a pot on and doing some joint creation with me, just say so.
If you’re shy and prefer to e-mail, I can be reached at:
if you look really, really carefully… there’s something in my nose.
just an assortment of my abstract photos from the past few weeks
Just a few original shots of my balcony window in different moods and lighting. (I think you have to click on each photo in order to see full size, if so enticed)
haunted housewife concedes to knowing ghosts she’s wed but a run down garden shed.
and buried beneath the winding weeds rests a box of forgotten flowers, dry hours and taped up pictures
shutters flash old screams on Imax screens in dead dreamer’s buried head.
curled into groove of curb is an old gym shoe,
wonder who’s walks and faiths wiggled their pigs into you,
and how hard the heavy work hurt, and whether day’s weather makes your week smell much worse,
and if the shoe even fit foot or mostly it hurt.