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“If your life station is distasteful, change your flavor.”

Double-click Settings.
Select Profile.
Click Personality.
From Attributes select Flavor.
Click the Next button.
Choose something like tangerine for example.
Click Apply,
and you’re all set!

Change your flavor.

“I am my own delimiter.”

3, 2, 1, Lift off!

If your imagination’s feathers aren’t clipped, you can pretty much fly in any sky.
But who’s feathers have been snipped?
Nearly everyone.
And who cuts the feathers of others and even themselves?
Nearly everyone.
Who accepts their broken wings no longer yearning to soar?
Nearly everyone.

The cutting happens at a fairly young age.

That’s dumb.
I don’t see it.
Don’t quit your day job.
Clip the scissors of others who’s wings can’t flap.

I’m embarrassed and stupid.
What was I thinking?
I’m no good.
As we butcher and kill our right and left quills,
not realizing we are pruning our own flight path.

But we’re no longer that youthful
peer-pressured putz who cuts their own plummage,
just to fit in.

Or are we?

Let’s be a pilots and not passengers.

Happy are those who fly their own sky.

“If I wasn’t so worried about tomorrow, I could remember yesterday.”

The future arrived yesterday.
(What does he mean by the future?
I don’t know.
I don’t know either.)
I wasn’t home to accept the package.
(No way.
Where were you?)
So some dickheads stole it.
(That’s deep.
They stole the future?)

“I am uncomfortable wearing Ancient Egyptian attire.”

I was able successfully to infiltrate ancient Egypt by identifying as a scarab and chanting from the Book of the Dead with a kickass singing voice.

Guess I’m a buggy-wuggy mummy crooner.
And a boomer.
But not a Karen.

So I’m sharin’…my ancient nation declaration,
if only I could
talk like an egyptian.

Akhenaten
rotten, sotten, misbegotten
murdered lotta gods and got forgotten.
Not-ten.

Dig it.

The trouble with jazzin’ on lovers of Ra
is they’re kinda square,
or pyramidal, baby!
Maybe they’re more suited for Rock.
They had lotsa those and they liked to stack ’em.
Highly.

Nefertiti
quite the sweety,
had a nice butt and birthed l’il Tut.
Smutty.

That’s quite enough already.

“Art will eventually kill us all.”

Landscapes are great
for fans of faux photographs
or Nature neutered imitated
emulated sunshine on a make believe day.
But hey!
You never get rained on.
Or burnt by forgotten SPF
Definitely painful ouch that stings.
Which brings us to my point,
my pointed purpose pontificated,
my elucidated summary of
why I paint abstractly.

It’s not boring.

Snoring through another summer
brushed upon a canvas bummer
deftly waiting while it dried,
oil paint takes like six forevers,
Something that day dearly died.
Why paint scenes that lack surprise?
So now I scribble in accidents
my palette packed unplanned events
with destinations clearly unknown
but I drive there fast.
Or sometimes slow.
I don’t know, sometimes I drive fastly slow
It’s mostly about the go
not the get there.
So here we have it in a nutty shell
Art’s not boring when I’ve no clue where I’m going.
Maybe I should apply this to the rest of my life?
Nah,
I could die someday.

“Red lines are beautiful, and telling.”

Where I draw my ruby red line
as defined
and dictated by what I
believe I stand for

will not be altered easily
nor re-inscribed
or hastily rewritten
when challenged or inconvenient.

This line of blood extends my heart
and offers others a clear demarc
on what’s my sacred, what’s profane,
my status quo and what’s insane.

It signals “stop” to those who tread
too carelessly amongst my dead,
my simple treasures, daily bread,
my god, my demons and that’s nuff said.

I will not hide my red lifeline,
even if its hue
is quite unfashionable
or questionable
taste to those who’ve painted theirs
another shade of
wasted paint.

When lines will cross, they often do,
sometimes battles will ensue
for lines, like blades,
work best
unsheathed.

And that’s just fine.

So brandish it, my recommend,
for rattled sabers do not rust,
and trust in time your line will find
other’s lines likewise sublime.

“Only bad pictures of yourself on the internet last forever.”

Tell me, what can you see?

I see an empty surface.

Not what DO you see, what CAN you see? Look beyond the emptiness.

I can see colors.

Look between the colors, what can you see?

The colors are forming shapes and patterns.

Give them a sense of purpose, give them clarity. What can you see?

I see a painting.

Push past the painting, what can you see?

I see.

What was that?

That was your imagination awakening from it lifelong slumber.

It kinda hurts!

You’ll get used to it.

“You are a star trek phaser, set to stun.”

I seem to have lost my digits, can I have yours?
I have a case of WD-40 in my car, wanna get drunk?
Is your CPU fan malfunctioning? You’re registering extremely hot.
Are you from Alpha Centauri? Your beauty is not of this planet.
Is that a right cylindrical cadmium rod in my pocket? No, I’m just glad to see you.

Dude. Your hat is dampening my deliciousness.

“Remorse doesn’t play well with others.”

wistful is a nametag best worn crumpled
with corners bent

haven’t we met some other springtime
i lost my view; blocked by you and

wistful — a business card with
tiny type no reading glasses

year-long conversations erased by
a few sentences with misplaced commas —

if only i could type

wistful, yes, is a well-penned email
forever draft and never sent
an explanation a what was meant

an almost maybe would be read.

wistfully.

“Guns are pacifists when left alone.”

A little buckaroo and his ole grampaps
were sippin’ lemonade on a hot September day.

“Never heard y’of Jimmy ‘Jim’ McGilligan, eh? Well sit right back while I tell that tale, a tale of a fateful slip up.”
Sip. Sip.
“Jimmy was a bad hombre, pistolero, pistoleer, who made his name by killin’ folk, shot them in the ear, or rear, or back, don’t really matter where, he just liked killin’.”
Sip. Sip.
“One day while robbin’ a stagecoach, Jimmy hears some talk of a town of small renown where killiin’ aint a crime and murder aint illegal. Anything goes in the tiny town of Dispatch.”
Sip. Sip.
“Natcherly Jimmy thinks ‘Well Hell! I kin be a big man, I kin be a star! Wonder where this place is at, hope it aint real far'”.
Sip. Sip.
“‘Tell me where is Dispatch er else I might just shoot ya!’ Jimmy Jim threatened a woman wearing white. ‘Bout fifty miles west, in Two Gulps Canyon’ cried the frightened whitened woman who was fearful for her life. BANG! Jimmy shot her dead. Told ya he was bad medicine.”
Sip. Sip.
“So Jimmy and his gang, I think that there was five, set off fully gallopin’ to make their killin’ fortunes in the little town of Dispatch. ‘Bout 3 hours ta git there. Just 3 hours ta git there. Yup.”
Sip. Sip.
“When Jimmy got ta Dispatch he went looking for a bar. And a fight. A big bar fight, yup that’s right. And he found one. Saloon Skullduggery.”
Sip. Sip.
Burstin’ through the barroom door, eyeballs turned there was 84, Jimmy spied the Marshall playin’ poker with his pals. Not just any Marshall, about it make no bones, but sitting at the table was Jedidiah Jones.”
“But that’s YOUR name grampaps!!” the buckaroo shouted.
“Settle down son!” a laughing grampaps gently spouted.
“Jimmy Jim faced the Marshall staring in his eye. ‘Tell me Marshall, is it true that killin’ aint a crime?'”.
“‘Ats right, sir’ Jedidiah did reply. ”
Sip. Sip.
“‘Get ready for the reaper!’ cried Jimmy Jim McGilligan and went to draw his weapon when he heard the shots and felt the stun of 42 bullets spit from everybody’s gun. Crumblin’ to the floor, not six steps from door, Jimmy Jim McGilligan he wasn’t any more. “
Sip. Sip.
“Jedidiah Jones, staring at his cards mumbled ‘reason villains stay away from little Dispatch every day is even while it aint a crime to take a life, you won’t do time, EVERYONE in Dispatch carries and will shoot and don’t take fondly, to the foolish, the noisy, the boastful and the killin’ kind.”
Sip. Sip.
“So what ever happened to Dispatch?” blurted buckaroo.
“Ohhh!” grampaps frowned, wiping lemon from his chin.
“The got blowed up on 911.”

BANG!

“When Iron breathes, it burns.”

Earth to earth,
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
there’s a melancholic beauty in the sadness of rust.

A very… slow… despair,
I hope it isn’t painful,
when iron gets a taste of water burning in the air.

Auburn air-burn.
Dark ginger singe just a little off the top, please.

Does metal bellow silent screams
imperceptible
to the human ear,
I fear,
when rusting,
and dusting,
simply following entropy’s lead,
and I wonder,
do other ores hear it clearly?

So I listen carefully to no avail,
even when I scrunch my face to make the sound louder,
and I watch intently to no avail,
even when I don my readers
in attempt to not miss details.

I always fail as iron falls calling me to catch it,
I’m simply too fast and furious
to fathom the extremely shallow depth of
heavy metal’s drowning.

But I can taste its death march.
The earthy tang of rosies.
bitterness of posies,
gritty spittled ashes,
we all
fall
down.

And busting.

A rhyme.

There’s melancholic beauty in our rusting over time.