A confession

I have not gotten out of bed today.

"Moonchild" by King Crimson, Christina Ricci scene from "Buffalo '66"

Some days I just want to dissolve.

 It has its different forms.  It can be beautiful.  I have always felt the original ending to "The Little Mermaid" is beautiful.  The Disney version is repugnant.  To turn into sea foam, be washed away.  Is Ego still there?  Like everything else, moved by the moon and the tides.  Above all else, I want to be on a beach somewhere with bare feet in the sand, staring at the moon.

...And every day objects are so provocative.

I bought white tiger lilies for my dresser.
They're practically pornographic.
When they blossom, they're as big as the moon.
It's under their incandescence that I sleep, and dream about you.

paintings! and cheesiness!

abstract #3 and #4

oil on mylar, 11"x9", 2014

Romantic picture of my night table:

"The creative process is a cocktail of instinct, skill, culture and a highly creative feverishness. It is not like a drug; it is a particular state when everything happens very quickly, a mixture of consciousness and unconsciousness, of fear and pleasure; it’s a little like making love, the physical act of love." — Francis Bacon (artist)


My cat is cuddling with me this morning.  His namesake:

These little things make me grateful.

poem

Primal digestion


I have a number of pelts
and scalps
given without reluctance--
tied, with your own hands,
to my belt.

The useless
parts
to the vultures.
They don't care for decoration...

They don't care,
who killed, how or why?

They take the true spoils of war.

The sinew and stopped blood,
corroded into meaty rust.

I, too, have wings.
They're spattered in blood.

And I, too, am cleansed
by my own fluids --

but you stick around.

I shower in the
hottest waters.

I scourge my skin.

But it's not you
I'm washing off,

Not your hands, maybe
the only real thing about you.

They've made permanent imprints.

Fucking rejoice!

And crush me into submission.

Journal snippets:

"The mysterious weakness of a man's face" - Sartre

"As long as space remains, and as long as sentient beings remain, until then I too remain, and help dispel the misery of the world." - Buddhist prayer (from the Dalai Lama's [favorite] prayer before the US Senate.)


Painting notes:
Why one painting is working and the other is not:

-Stronger/better thought-out color relationships
-Forms are "defined"
-Trust and romance
-Better interaction of opaque ("painted") and transparent
-BALLS.


Poem:

I'll rock myself to sleep
and come up at dawn...
Opiate dreams of you,
your face blooming as the poppy,
bursting red,
moving over me
and down my throat
and I can still breathe
until you drown me again
at nightfall.

*

Nothing... nothing at all, all through me.

*
Rearranged slices from a couple of poems.


I want my bed, all of it and all of my self
to reek, seaweed and sea foam
caught between rocks, dead
starfish washed up

The sounds of the highway are oceanic--do they
move with the moon?  As I do?

(some cheesy yet raunchy shit)


...Like a kitten
licking her paws after her first kill,
I am thinking of you.

Whoever you are, I could eat you alive.


*
Offering


My skin feels unreal,
strange.
It may not belong to me.
...It could be yours.

A couple of things.

New paintings:

Untitled I and II, 11"x9", oil on mylar, 2014

Then there's this new single by Lykke Li:

http://www.nme.com/news/lykke-li/75855

Charles Bukowski, "In Defense Of A Certain Type Of Poetry", from Portions From A Wine-Stained Notebook

"The middle-heads and English teachers talk continually from a rather absent and disabled platform of life.  Yet, their drivel, like a continuing rain, drowns almost everybody.  I hope that these few words from the corner barstool have gotten through to some--that our seemingly unsuccessful lives and ways and poesy are chosen ways.  We are, most of us, neither killers or fakes.  But someday we will write down the word so beautifully, o, so perfect and real, that all you monkeys will come out of your gardens and begin to be enough for me to look

upon

that which makes the
face and body and love of you

and

I will not twitch in my damned
rented cot
for hours of
spasm and pain and horror


I die and pray for you and
myself


if I could wish all you
bent dead bastards
the tiny inch of my life left
I would plunge it into you
and
sleep forever."