gone
all told
to the silver man,
freezing in no hopes
shaking head with cap
and saying
"Oh dear me,
dear me,
this's the -
the big one!
we're all dead
for sure."
Life is a leaking faucet
because no-one can stop it,
even if you die,
the worms live on.
Say, worm,
do a happy worm-dance.

it airplane

You’re sleeping next to me

in an airplane

suspended in the dark sky of

Raliegh to Los Angeles

meanwhile gangsters kill

each other in parking lots

until the survivors sell frozen yogurt to us

in Texas layover.

Now more than halfway to LA –

we’ll stay there and

call it home even

and abide

the bullshit

and love everything good

until we leave,

and we will love

everything good.

Time is a folded napkin.

We will get there,

Lord-willing of course,

and if we never

see a million

flower petals

falling like rain

from a benevolent God

of beautiful miracles

but instead sit in

the dark with

pain hunger temptation

anger loss and shame

let us say

still and always

this is the best shit

because God put us

here, and God

is good.

Lapse not into

absurdity and keep

me sane.

Sane without humanity?

Floating duck

spots of light floating

like burning bugs

erratic

quack

float

fuck,

I say, sing

something enrapturing

for luck

but quietly and

where no-one can

hear you.

Loud constant hush of

the airplane

sings to me now.

This is the sky-song

of the prosperous and

rich: silence,

rushing of wind,

darkness, oh,

I love to think

of the other

times where

we knew everything

would be okay –

we still know

it, of course,

I do, I sing it

every day.

Remember

the sun?

You talked about visions of the

sunset, described

in words that people

use about heaven,

with the attendant

“oh my God”

of praise.

The sun behind clouds

seen over the ocean

in the West where

it sets.

Dynamic like

the waves

and the heavens and

earth and angels

and souls,

souls, dynamic,

souls, changing,

changing up or

down or separating

at the seams

where two have

been haphazardly

stitched together

or tightened with

the signs of

years of wear and

mending.

Souls and their

love are

the beauty

of God,

sunsets, His

power.

Evil

   death?

          songs

            sad songs

               tears

        oh,

       fear

all this I thought

while

you described the colors

and apparitions

and sprites

angels

and songs

that you saw in the

clouds with

the sun

that no-one else

could see.

  your words were as

  beautiful as you are

  and with the same

  suffering – your hair

  blown by the wind

  covered your face

  you turned it down

  and brushed it away

  like you do all the

  horrors of your mind

  and of the world by

  God’s grace.

  I look now

to my side and

you’re fast asleep still

still no lights outside

clouds maybe but

for us only

dark

until tomorrow.

We’re going West

along with the sun.

We’re prolonging the

darkness for us.

The more the better

because usually it’s the

days that linger

with no end.

first woodcut

there was a crew called "FOI"

it stood for "FULL OF INSANITY"
I like that name

I never met any of them, but they used to write things on my street

these pictures are unrelated

sophia

The dull light, green
and yellow, flares
around your
neck and shoulders
and your face blurs out
in a picture
in my mind
and foreign charms
rattle on your chest --
keep smiling, like
you do, like you've got
the darkness to disprove,
like you know the
path and can show me to
the source of life
and light, that narrow
path, and winding, and
binding, and treacherous,
but it's alright,
the horror of hell
does not overwhelm
when we glimpse the last enemy
and rattle the gates of hades
and hear the gnashing and
weeping that sounds
like a song of profound
truth and I'll start
weeping too if my eyes
and heart fail and if I
look down or even
at you and fear
like the grip of a python
is waiting for me,
so smile like you do,
because you've got the darkness
to disprove.

first oils doodle

arrow

beelzebub

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47OhgRF_Fl8

I’m thrown like a stone

and I skip six times

over still waters

and sink on the seventh.

I’m wasting away

like river rocks

washed out into the sea,

gone, lost,

don’t look for me.

I’m gone and free

as a man buried

eight feet.

Mr. Linux on left, Jank on right.  featured at the TOW Art Space.

the end

mike

the drains

            JANKINS

"When we get there, we’ll make a circuit around the block to see which houses have lights on, who’s awake and asleep.  Then we’ll park, and once the car stops, no talking, no noises, just get out and get the paint and go.  Once we’re away from the car and into the wash on our way down into the drains, don’t stop for anything.  If someone sees you or someone says something to you, don’t stop.  We’re vulnerable until we get inside the drains.  Once we’re in the drains, no-one will follow us.  There was a guy who shot at a cop and went down into the drains, and it took the cops three hours to even go in there.  So if it’s a cop who sees you outside the drains, run.  Drop everything and run.  Once you get through the mouth of the drains you’re safe.  You can pop out a manhole or keep going down for miles.  But it’s illegal to be holding spray paint inside a wash so don’t stop and chat with anyone."

I stop the car.  The four doors pop open, and then close, I unload the bags from the trunk, Anctious takes the battery pack and we hop the fence, slide down the bank into the wash, and walk north toward the drains.  Now, walking, there’s time to notice the coolness of the air and the clouds in the sky that diffuse the light of the moon. It’s silent except for the treading of our shoes.  On either side of the wash are houses, some with lights that come on automatically as we pass, and now at 10 PM people will still be awake, and if they look out their back doors they’ll see our parade, and if not, they’ll hear the dogs and know we’re here.

One dog yelps at us a few times and then quiets.  Another barks from the other side, and more dogs hear us or catch our smell and join in, but we can see the mouth of the drains, dimly, down there where the sides of the wash rise up into a ceiling and go down under a parking lot and under a shopping mall and on underneath the rest of the city.  At the last house three dogs bark and growl with fierceness that betrays their sixth sense about who is good and who is bad, if you heard these dogs bark you’d say they are convinced we are bad, we are demons and spirits like Mephisto who prowls disguised as a cat, and we, trying to be as quiet as the cat do not escape the notice of the dogs, they know.