Are we all homeless?

Now, Phrases and Poems | | No Comments

Does it make sense? Are we all homeless? Milk cartons hanging from metal rods, full of white milk. Light pink straps, light green straps, tie down nothing. They do decorate, though I’m not sure what. The colors feel nice, like finding your missing black sock, like the sun poking through the clouds. But It’s not Easter. There is no third day under a bridge, in a gallery. It’s all art, it’s all life. But what about my english class? I never went. My teacher, she didn’t care. So I can’t speak to you. I don’t know where I came from, I don’t know what I’m looking at. I know a bridge though, it keeps me dry when it never rains in LA. And the metal rods, they’re stainless steel. They keep my shopping cart off the internet. It’s my mobile home. The items in my cart they are my thoughts, they are my words, my yelling, my thuggin, my brothas. I talk to them. They tell me who be snitchin. I put them on my top shelf. I fight you for the best wall space; this group show is actually a me show. Some nice time in the big yard. … read more

I am not painting

Blog, Phrases and Poems, Studio Process | | No Comments

Not painting shape Not painting scenes Not painting faces no pets, no legs. I’m painting words I’m painting phrases They dance like lakes And live like laces. Not painting bows Not painting freckles Not painting Grandma or Nazi’s or your pile of shoes. I’m painting some letters And their sounds too. I’m painting a party And all the frowns too. Not your car Not it’s slick paint job Not that country And not its snack mixes. It’s the White House It’s the President It’s his wife And all the cleaning ladies The carpet too. I’m painting the chalkboard I’m painting our dinner I’m painting the formulation The salad and the wiener. I’m painting the rose garden I’m painting the gate key. It’s the text books, they’re in shambles And don’t we all know it. It’s who left the coffee stains. No I’m not German. I mean yes, my family is. I mean my ancestors. I am American. Though I have lived in Europe. But no I’m not painting the forest Not even the War. I’m not painting brush strokes or Coachella or Hesbola any more. No, I’m not painting this land. No, I’m not painting your Heaven. I’m not painting … read more