| Artists just feel there way through Darkness,
imperfection, graffiti-tunnels, the blindness of painting,
without reason, without plan, being taken by the wind,
wherever it may lead they follow no fixed rules, use random tools,
all around on the ground, great ones breaking the fixed laws,
achieving Newness of Life and Expression beyond anything
before its sound.
High School love letters strewn on the ground, packages of salt,
salt be ye of the earth, people buried in salt piles, lot's wife a pillar,
ketchup condiments, itchy-balls fallen from the trees,
coffee cups with teeth marks at their rims,
Newport boxes, a piano lesson sign, a beef-jerky wrapper,
a Chinese fortune that reads 'Every friend joys in your success'.
Man asking where the nearest library is, his car over-heated
and he wants to kill time, no particular author.
cigarette butts in the cracks, crusty dry lipstick at the tips.
the garbage, over-consumption exposed
smelly juices of all variations
wrinkled plastic with melted chocolate
and ants crawling in and out becoming a melting orgy
mass heap of waste litter
the paradox of glitter
wounds of a dog that bit her,
the hydrant becoming a red figure.
crushed cans in spans of time
need'n just a dime
to record your rhyme
on the answering-machine
flee'n from the air blown by machines
seeking the sway of Almond Trees
of the Gospel, broken spoons, forlorn,
worn down to the brim by the rust of acid rain.
Dusty windows with sacred gang inscriptions
and barking poodles next to a summer window with a dusty fan spinning
my mind is spinning and sinning,
hazy horizon hemming,
tanning the skin of scarred victims,
oil that drips from over-heated junky bomb cars,
needed to drive the 20-mile or so miles to the work place,
where one will say the stranger's face, “May I help you?”
Feathers and bit lollypops (cherry)
scattered on the ground like pick-up-sticks,
like condoms once beholding throbbing dicks,
soon to be time-expired without the fine,
just the sweat and further distortion of "Love"
and the sign of the dove,
Latin girls standing in the sun
with their child in the carriage that squeaks,
plastic and poorly manufactured,
the sort that you have to really lift and push
to climb over those slabs of slate on the sidewalk,
diaper on the tracks,
a woman with the name "Iris" on her arm,
clouds appearing like curdled milk.
Father hasn't been around in a while,
His new clothes expose a new style.
An old woman in sweats sits on a Senior Citizen stair in a sweltering 98 degrees,
a half eaten burger dinner for the flies still in its wrapper,
a pregnancy test box floating in the puddle at the side of the curb,
a scrap of paper that reads "Satan uses the pope in Rome",
oil puddles with reflections of colour, puzzled by the beauty,
men looking out of Stucco wrapped half-built buildings wanting to get the hell home;
a man saying "Not everyone matches up sexually"
a girl wearing a bullet belt and pink spiral earrings,
another man saying "Naw man, I ain't Fuck'n you,
you like 7 years old, get back in the house!"
A man walking by with the name Chantay on his arm,
who is Chantay, I wish I could know, young boys saying
" ...he be making millions and shit, he kill'n it ..."
the same young boys talk about how they want to become airplane pilots
and laughing about the worst case sceneries that go with it, and finally
to end the hectic heat wave of a ride,
a man says, "I'm wearing a t-shirt with the world's best speed-racer, nobody can beat him!"
And there you have it. The Chaos.
The hodgepodge. The mélange. This ... this ... imbroglio!
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Homelessness. Poverty. Hunger. Men under bridges with rain dripping on their scruffy faces.
Every day I am exposed to these tragedies. I can't help but to address them, somehow. But in them, in the corners, in the cracks of the paint, or on the walls in graffiti, their is some message of hope for the viewer. I guess what I want to say is this - in our darkest most depressing of times, there is hope, we just have to find it, to look at our life, to listen to it, and find it.
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