Like Pawley You Subsume
Art,
Hiding itself from place,
Placed in the misplaced,
Place that we are.
When images vide in power,
When language controls our thoughts,
Art breaches each.
Always misunderstood,
Never properly named,
Absently present.
Like Pawley you subsume,
Something, save the name, larger than life,
You beckon…
I call, recall,
Yes, yes.
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Dear Mark
I felt you today,
Imagined you,
Floating in your pool of blood.
The song sang,
“Like the youth I looked above”.
Now that you are looking down,
What do you see?
I am convinced it was your masterpiece.
A color field of merlot,
Tinted with love,
Shaded with reds bound to heaven.
I know we are all dead,
But I feel so alive.
I am simply writing to ask,
Where did you go, and can I join you there?
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Conversations With You
You have eyes of passion. They are seeking eyes, emptying all they know. It won’t be long until you will be blessed with blindness. Don’t be afraid, there will be no pain, no suffering, and no scaring. Finally what you have been straining to see will be shown. You no longer will perceive Nature’s dance, yet but be one with it. What a joyous moment it will be when heaven is shown, your eyes turn pure white, and the war against darkness subsides. You are almost there. Just let go.
Why do you yearn to fly away?
Learn not to yearn.
You are the wind.
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Dear Gray Man
I have seen you around here before,
Warning of eminent storms.
You dissolve into the gray seas,
Protecting Pawley’s shores.
I have not seen you lately,
Since I drowned in mire.
I keep my eyes clear of everything,
Seeking signs between tides.
Gray Man, the secrets you hold,
Are the secrets we should know?
As the seasons turn,
I will wait longingly for your return.
Only a fool speaks of the unspeakable,
I remain a fool, seeking ignorance.
Waiting for you,
Drowning in the deep empty hue.
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To Pawley, in Pink and Gray
“Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. “ Genesis 1:1, 2
Around seven in the morning the merlot touched my tongue. I gazed deeply at the wine that rest on my chest. Through the foggy glass my eyes wandered, resting upon a window that stood wide open. It was only moments before I had opened it to banish the steam and feel the cool air. The breeze was a rush of Carolina, and the gaping window was a distraction. Meanwhile, my beautiful bluebird flew away.
As I drank the alcohol it seemed to ferment into deep sorrow. Two days I wasted in that tub, water to my eyes, skin wrinkled and rot. As the water eventually drained away I gawked at the waif in the mirror. The walls surrounding me were not home. Home had caught breeze to another atmosphere.
I confronted the void revealed by pink and gray paint. I cursed the useless empty space. All my life I have convinced myself to have faith in things I can’t see; the spaces that bind you and me.
I run, chasing the air out of my lungs, a little boy wading through spaces drowned with emptiness.
It is a solemn life being the man that ruined the world. A mystic is a lonely occupation. While beautiful bluebird remains above the clouds, I am lucky to still have you. I am returning to your shores for my duties. We will keep a lookout. Man the lighthouse. Focus the telescope. You can take post by day, and I by the dark blue night. We will build the sanctuary and record the signs; renew faith.
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A Short, True, Story
It is a situation I never thought I would be in. Completely shut off to the world, an awful smell permeated from the only drinking holes that would allow me to survive this dire situation.
It was awful. The smell made my head spin as the heat of the room began to rise. In a panic I kept asking myself, “How did I get in such a horrible position?”
What do I do? The door handle just spun and spun; the lock was not catching. With the mechanics of the door shot, I began to knock on the door. Nevertheless, no one took time to investigate the noise coming from inside the public bathroom. Do you blame them?
And at the height of my frustration I realized there was no way out. I put my head on the metal door to cool my rosy cheeks. I gazed at the names that had been scratched into the paint. I wondered how many of them had shared the same fate. My eyes connected with the lock. Embarrassed, the door had defeated me.
In my mind I traveled to the ocean. I encountered the horizon that always makes me feel so small. In this instance the door was that horizon. Larger. Stronger. Mysterious. Instinctively I tried turning the bolt one last time.
A refreshing click released the smell and me. Freedom.
I learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes you get locked in the bathroom at the laundry mat. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation simply remember - It is always important to remain modestly humble. Doors will open.
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Under Constant Construction - A Timeless Disclaimer
Greetings! This site is still under major construction. I am currently working to update with descriptions, medium and sizes of paintings. After that I will always be adding new work and new commentary! If there is something you would like to see happen on this website that is not taking place, contact me! Otherwise, check back often and enjoy the site as it is under constant construction...
