CLAIM

There is always a darker colored line in my stain.
Dust attaches to my stain. A flower petal
landed on my satin, I pulled it off
and there—a light mark underneath
where the stain had been wiped away.

“You number my wanderings; put my tears into your bottle; are they not in your book?” (Psalm 56:8)

Fawn

I swallow blown-glass fruit because it shines
and you have put it out on the table
for me, rows of peaches and lemons
with skins wetter than whale eyeballs.
My tongue excretes the taste of buttercream
heavy with yolks, flush onto stabbing,
a tie-died innocence, a sunset
slipping away.

American Poetry Series, David Wojahn

American Poetry Series, Lorine Niedecker

Women and Poetry, Panel VCFA Jan 4, 2011

Philosophy a 45 second look

Lecture by Douglas Glover, Vermont College of Fine Arts, Jan 3, 2011. One of the best for sure!

My Confession

Lecture by Robin Behn, "Confessions on Confessionalism" VCFA Jan 3, 2011

Publishing!

Panel on Publishing, VCFA Jan 3, 2011

Destabilize Grammar

Vermont College of Fine Arts, Bill Olsen Lecture, Jan 1, 2011

My Love

HOLE BOTTOMED

There is a box branced beneath
my right seventh rib where are kept
the blazon words. They are aglow with
bright color-- an omnificent bubbling cold
medicine or a jelly fish just arrived on sand.
Beached. I'm painting eyes worrying about the box
filling. The flecks-- red streaks,
depths on eyelids in purple
just alluding.

This is a message to you. See the eyes.
See the eyes always. They're the flint lighters,
the measurements; the eventual last words.
Desperation is the eye. Now, friends--I'm bringing
to your attention-- the nebula.
See this girl, she is much like you. She has a heart.
(A little cliche -- but cliche is sometimes good.)
We all lov ethe predictability of the movies. Don't lie.
There it is again-- the center of light. The Spirit.
There is more love. But where does one put another
brush stroke when the heart is already drawn in;
but, the lungs are absent? Gasping for breath in gold?
What is noticeable? Try to look at the yellow-- streaks from a little
brush. Up top where my eyes are pointing.
Want to be little my loves. Little is, little does
A lot

Alive-- I watch thee--forward

R. Waldo Emerson

New: Orange is Royal

Waiting for my hands

New Inventory

Drexel Heritage 1974, frame $400

Little Lady of Spirit 3'x4'

WINDFALL: NIGHTFALL

Large Format

Jack Be Lucky Jack Be Quick

Portrait of Jack Kerouac

Flannery O'Connor

New Portrait

Tony Bones: graffiti artist, first and foremost true—subculture guru—Deli Bag’s founder—member of the underground artistic breath mafia, some say terrorist to the concrete—others say, a hard wall’s lover. His paint goop—fearless, wrought with spirit line, non-shellacked, unafraid to touch the outcast, unseen surfaces ignored by the sun—the shadow hoverers—corners under bridges. Gracious: holes and flaking paint’s ok. He says, “thank you and let’s get dressed for the sunrise, another day alive, give face,” offering a simple shirt and shoes from his black plastic bag carried miles on foot to where needs is; walls of highways and soon to be demolished buildings—people. Tony Bones—portrait artist, the never to be know, never to be spoken with—given symbol. Bat, bat, clang graffiti Jihad, graffiti Jesus.