Boli, 2017, stoneware and wood

Eliot

2015, height: 15 inches, ceramic and mixed media

what kind of rose

what kind of rose would you install in your cigarette showing

others your mud pies a string of light splattering water in rows

domino-style this halo around my head is too hot and makes my ears

sweat would you take your hammer and smash it open so I can get

some air shards from my broken halo cut into my forehead and blood

like tea from used teabags drip over porcelain—tears from snotty babies

dew drooling off pumpkins in a perspiring garden an elevated disc

a cup of mosquito larvae rising and falling in a dance of linear perspective

we speculate on roses that answer all our obnoxious questions an oracle

in circular pink pinnacles a wasp from the depths of the ovary says

evacuate our dreams and illusions if we want to survive the apocalypse

abandon our convictions which make us convicts to our realities

realities erupt—hot ash and embers fall in our hair as we shout down

our masculine/feminine identities embers form crystals red yellow blue

green violet around us in strings of water wait while I adjust my underwear

underneath the clear surface a translucence that enhances the chromatic blur

rainbowed hedges imagine a waterfall only in reverse crashing over fir trees

turned to stone imagine a snake glistening in the breeze bathing the affluent poor

deprived of their sense of wholeness till their peels shrivel and juice oozes

onto their white robes staining them red blue purple emerald malachite

exceptional bastards we are of the gods who inhabit the mountains

and crumble down upon us in shards and gash our foreheads helplessly

with symbols that add up to 666 since we are destined to destroy ourselves anyway.

Stone Spruce, North Fork Coeur d'Alene River, 7 August 2014

47°39'21.4"N 116°21'58.1"W

47.655934, -116.366127

Sonnet

the embrace of rain the cold pebbles exploding on my degarnished pate the embrace of wet grass a flash and rumble soaked unpatterned pattering undisciplined splats hollowed by raw breezes the trees never asked your permission what became of the sky its vagueness as extracted from the smoke of prayers the bobbing of an orange umbrella skittering along the road like a stray dog what has become of emptiness ski poles’ holes in the sand equate lions of ash splashes the whistle of a wheel forced to scrape out its rubber and empty existence white dust blown onto the surface of the lake again with the paper rustling in the junior high mimeograph angry crinkling against the machine of momentum an electronic birdsong but the perpetual unrhythmic rhythm, “Why do you have to yell at me like I’m an idiot?”

pattering grows more random taken over by the regular tap of a clock above like an encaged angel tapping on the glass to get attention and hopefully be released

Roundabout to Canterbury

2012
pencil & color pencil on paper
8 ½" by 5 ¾"

She stood on the curb