Skull

Oil on Acrylic
16"x20"

for spacious skies

oil on acrylic on stretch canvas 
24" x 18"
12.27.12
[intricate details not appropriately displayed. shite picture. i'm on it.]

Belly Cast

Finished belly cast for a friend. Dec. 27, 2012.

'again with the fucking fingers.'
'but they're metallic now. eerie flesh. short stories don't come from hands like these.'

material, immaterial

Inertia is a stampede. A thick horn between my breasts, or a very heavy fellow who tips coins between my steps, who even dreams where I do. There's aces between might (noun) where only a lampshade could save you now, from start to finish fist roaring acres of sad sighs, frozen pitch-ina-dead-heat, I'll spy upon metaphors when I'm older. Now sleep in sheep's wool, wake next upon shames of a shady mother.

But inertia, when in neutral and barreling into a fake tit of a hill, and tugged by science o'er peak and thru valley, is a monumental act of nature to be reckoned with. You cannot stop, you cannot.

sat dec 22 12:36

what then, would be worth
counting the lines in my knuckles
after i've already type written letters
to an old address
which wont they be forwarded?
but three weeks later i've red inked my wrists
with all the piles of returned, stamped,
fucked on envelopes

it used to be that a man on a horse
would make goddamned sure
that the cunt on the other end of my ink
would read every last bitch of a word
and then ride on home to tell me how
goddamned validated i should feel

well so what i like old fashioned.
but goddamnit do i love streaming the oddball films, too.
and i like knowing what movie elses they directed
and whos worth another role
and what not and pictures of bird skulls
and oddball homemade posters to films i havent even seen yet
but that i go to sleep obsessing over

 and then there's this thought about getting into the biz
and how horrible that will be but how much pressure there is
to just be horrible with it
because its making another reality in this already fucked one we share
and isn't that the bees knees and how badly do i want to just
play pretend and hate every second of it.

 send me to school mommy,
make me mean daddy.
i oughta just sell some eggs, lay some other broad's baby
just so i can afford the plane ticket and rent to hate the next city
as much as i hated the last

and why wouldnt that be the solution to humanity
i dont get it otherwise.
what's a drunken joy if it's shallow
who do you really know
who do you think you're getting chummy with,
another asshole like me who talks a lot about art
and fucking and likes to dance 'freely'

and then goes home and frowns softly
while they fall asleep to casablanca
wishing they could be Bogart's little spoon for just one night,
just one melodic night where his voice is more than private dick or
soft hero, it's just some voice that makes you sleep through one fucking night
without waking up after having the sensation of being vacuumed into
a horrible deamon like alternative personality that hides in a cornfield.

well so fuck it, hollywood seems like the perfect fit for a
shit head like me.
what's one more nightmare, what's the horror in it if i'm awake
and i can really feel it for real this time
and not wake in a cold sweat
wondering how close to some sweet terror i had actually been.

Unknown Livingrooms

Photographs taken by my Great Grandmother, Natalie Norton, mother to Barbara Blachly, who mothered Mary Carpenter, who mothered me.

I find them fascinating. 

The Perfect Human

 Jørgen Leth, 1967
Lars von Trier was so fascinated by Leth's film that 'The Five Obstructions' was created. See below 'The Perfect Human.'