ouch

hey that hurt

what opening your eyes

yea, opening my eyes your arse! but wait, i'm still here. it's bright. way too bright

what were you expectin? angels?

fuck you

no, fuck you. i would appreciate a little more courtesy from a little human that you are

oh shite! and you are an angel?

well, no. i'm a... harvester

harvester?

well, a reaper

haaa! you are the fuckin grim reaper?

well shite, don't make it sound so...down

i save your arses from the harpies

what? wrong mythology bloke

well, it's not as easy as it seems, okay?

just give me a break

listen...do you want me to keep that big hole in the back of your head or not?

phoenix descending

phoenix descending
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

into its endless cycle.

"...I assumed he'd come to die and decided I would let him.

Each day he turned more from a monk in tattered robes
to a god performing penance for razor mouth and venomous body
though all gods are killers without fault..."

– Erin Lambert. Excerpt from "On Faith"

ghost on the wall

ghost on the wall
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

The Promise
by Sharon Olds

With the second drink, at the restaurant,
holding hands on the bare table,
we are at it again, renewing our promise
to kill each other. You are drinking gin,
night-blue juniper berry
dissolving in your body, I am drinking Fumé,
chewing its fragrant dirt and smoke, we are
taking on earth, we are part soil already,
and wherever we are, we are also in our
bed, fitted, naked, closely
along each other, half passed out,
after love, drifting back
and forth across the border of consciousness,
our bodies buoyant, clasped. Your hand
tightens on the table. You’re a little afraid
I’ll chicken out. What you do not want
is to lie in a hospital bed for a year
after a stroke, without being able
to think or die, you do not want
to be tied to a chair like your prim grandmother,
cursing. The room is dim around us,
ivory globes, pink curtains
bound at the waist—and outside,
a weightless, luminous, lifted-up
summer twilight. I tell you you do not
know me if you think I will not
kill you. Think how we have floated together
eye to eye, nipple to nipple,
sex to sex, the halves of a creature
drifting up to the lip of matter
and over it—you know me from the bright, blood-
flecked delivery room, if a lion
had you in its jaws I would attack it, if the ropes
binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them.

aquarelle

some days the fabric of my existence is like the surface of watercolor paper, it is rough, fibrous, dry and is tortured into thousands of little divots waiting forlornly for the moisture and pigment of color. when i cannot find my own words and hues to fill this pulpy desert, i turn to others. i turn to the thoughts, words and visions of others like a surrogate embryo looking for a host, looking for something that will nourish me in my moments of barrenness.

on days like these, i lose myself in the streams of images of others, wander through the labyrinths of words and sentences of long dead poets and writers, peer back at my scribbled drawings to see how i might have escaped this sort of black hole in times past. moments of comfort come and leave like tides, shifting the willing sand around my mind's ankles. i stare blankly for long expanses at the rippled sand the water leaves behind before i remember that this is normal, that this too, no matter how strange or uncomfortable, will pass, really.

so again i pick up the brush or the quill and start the cycle over, lay down the washes of pigment, scratch lines into cotton pulpy boards and find myself somewhere in the mix of colors – somewhere between burnt sienna and alizaron crimson. and when dusk comes i'll find bits of myself in the hues of the dying day.

The Room of My Life

The Room of My Life
by Anne Sexton

Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.

blue woman with turban

turban
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

the stranger came to my dreams again. this time she wore a cerulean turban.

"...I have tried obeying and not obeying laws
and neither has taught me how to climb.
Neither and both are guidelines.
Neither and both will ever fit.
I push words around; the clouds
won't remember it.
Their shadow spreads over other cliffs
and I see someone else on a climb.
She makes it look easy, far away.
Does she claw as I claw? Is this even worthwhile
to do? It's always more full of doubt
and harder
when the climber is you..."

– Susan Minot. FromThe Cliff Crawlers

russian hill to golden gate

russian hill to golden gate
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

hold your breath and listen to the sparrows. tilt your head and fall into the stream. the leaves cover you until you come out on the other side. there is sky you've never seen and smells you've never scented. pull that lotus seed out of your nose...

celebration

today i celebrate the death of something and hopefully the birth of something else.

i've never been one to make use of decay with the proper manners but this is a good time to learn as any.

decay. the point of time, space and matter in the human experience when the pieces don't harmonize anymore to produce anything that reminds the viewer of reality.

movements

there are movements on the ridge
there is motion on the uphill
seas of green strands swaying on the willow

there are movements on the ridge
there is motion in the hackles
the silver of the hackles don't lie

when down comes the movement
plunging is the term of something
sinking into and then below

like a fork finding recessess
into the not quite set meringue
so crusty at first but then satisfaction

there are movements on his spine
it is like a drunken scorpion
doesn't know when to put it down

The Gift (2004)

It is a gift that I have inside of me.
A heart of flesh and warm blood in my veins,
The images my eyes bring to my consciousness

And the courage of my soul to see them for what they are.
In pain and in tears sometimes my abilities offer me,
Yet in between all these sensations there still lies hope.

I must believe that hope exists.
I have a conviction that tomorrow the sun will rise
And with day’s end the moon will greet me.

I believe that when I look up at the dark sky
Shimmering stars will greet me with their smiles.
When in the desert with only sand and stone,
I believe my memories of you will never fade.

It is a gift that lives within me
That really belongs to another heart.
Yet I don’t possess the heart to put it in its rightly place,
Stars shine more brightly when viewed through a window.

In this house there are many glass panes.
They open our hearts to the past and to what may be;
They draw by lines and dots upon the celestial sky;
They tell stories of feats we may not always fulfill.

Yet they are faithful in a way that humans aren’t.
There are always gaps and holes in their stories;
There are always misplaced brushstrokes in their murals...

We can’t rely on murals to explain our lives,
We can’t rely on close ones to tell the truth; always,
Affection has her own course and her own ways.

But that is the reason we listen to her so,
It is not to record the bare truth of things.
It is to remember the feeling of our desire.

The Muse Hotel

Lies and Lace
Originally uploaded by EvilxElf.

At the muse hotel tonight
I have a rendezvous with a sight

She sits in waiting
On the red sombrero sofa
Her nails glossy and scarlet
Her lips glisten for attention

At the muse hotel tonight
She haunts the dimly lit lobby

She sits in waiting with
With a Gitane in hand
On the red sombrero sofa
Her hands smooth and veinless

I step from the courtyard
Into the checkered floor lobby
Like a lamb going to the altar

This strange dark haired woman
Where she comes from I know not
But she has an appointment

She sits in waiting
On the red sombrero sofa
Like Salome before her last dance
With lips glistening and liquid
Scarlet nails gently tapping
On a priest’s wicked sickle

She waits for the pulse of my blood
She waits for the warmth of my flesh
I have a rendezvous with appetite
At the muse hotel tonight

--
much gratitude to Maria for the use of the photograph

the waystation

i am in this empty house, drifting
in her imagined scent and soft skin.

beyond the doors are sand and cool sea
and this may be the place where i die.

not and end, a point of departure.
i shall miss the quirky endearments;

the look of the eyes and curve of lips;
the strange smile she sometimes shows.

i always wondered what it was like
or felt, to be on the backside of a mirror.

manhattan beach. october 2004

--

i wrote the first draft of this almost two years ago. it took a longer time to let go of something in order to finish the piece.

24 hours

the last 24 has been full of disturbances.

in my waking moments. in my sleep. in my in-betwen states where i hold most closely. something, someone out there has been trying to get in. it or they have been trying my patience, my desire to breathe, my desire to see the beautiful in everything when they aren't pretty. i feel the pressure like a cold cut of steak on the inside of a ziploc bag, waiting to be thawed, dried, salted and peppered like the one i fixed just that way for dinner. a piece of protein butchered, trimmed and saved just the way that those who might have me might like it.

i resist and i think there is still is resistance in me. i'll resist most likely long after i physically can't because i have words. i have pictures.

the anger is what is coming out of me now. the anger caused by fear comes out from me. it doesn't make the fear go away but its familiarity makes it possible to roll it all into something i can learn to deal with. i've learned i can live and live and live and speak my intent despite my fear. i will never shut up because i simply don't know how to. i am heisenberg's principle.

last night i had a dream of visiting an old woman, someone i didn't recognize but she was like an aunt or something like that. she was somewhere distant from where i am. my mother was with me. when we got there, her house was flooding. the level of the water was up to her bed, it touched her body. she was getting cold. her breath was passing from her body when i reached her and lifted her head, held her slender frail neck.

it was too late. she had gone. gone from the coldness and constant insane stupid self serving and pointless questioning of this world and i couldn't reach her anymore. i held her fading head in my hands with her body in the rising wet and cold water.

i awoke disturbed and crying. i wanted to vent my hurt and rage upon the face of this planet.

i wanted to walk out onto the desert and with a silken blade cut every throat of the idiots out there and more. i wanted pure destruction. enforced destruction in order to guarantee the cessation of stupid loss of life.

i am not political. i am fragile and human. i am so fragile i am completely willing to destroy half the planet in order to enforce quietude. level the whole fucking place so i'm no longer separated from the places and people i want to be close to. level the fucking idiots so that the bystanders don't have to suffer another eon of shit. and then others will level me and for a brief moment there will be quiet and kids can play in the yard or the river or the orchard field without worrying about land mines.

people who support

i am today, this moment, in this place am so tired of people who say they want to support me asking the same godamn fucking questions that there aren't answers for and asking for guarantees where there are none. at least none that i can deliver. to be fair i understand that they ask because they are fearful of things they don't understand. nevertheless there is a limit to all and i ask myself why i fucking bother. why do i fucking flying bother?

les temps perdus

les temps perdus
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

she sat on the bus across from me with her mom and little sister. the freckles...she had the greatest not quite pig tails! and her eyes were huge and hinted of mischief...

it was that day

i heard a fragment of something from the plastic radio hanging underneath the kitchen cabinet and above and near the stove.

i might have been making a sandwich for her, my wife at the time.

something on the radio, i couldn't tell what it was but my tissues told me it was not good.

it wasn't. it couldn't be.

i was supposed to meet the father of a friend for breakfast later that morning.

it was all a hurry.

and then my friend who lived in nyc started sending me pictures, there was mostly smoke.

he called and i can still remember the brokenness in his voice.

i am never offended, surprised, or moved by death.

but i am hurt by the ability of what we do to each other as humans.

once, i was asked what would i would do about the situation in bosnia.

i said, either take away all their tools or LEVEL the place.

absolutely pure destruction. enforced destruction if you aren't going to play nicely.

i still hold to the thought, being a child of war and violence.

so yea, i wanna play god. actually, god is a fucking wuss who has let herself be manipulated by stupid men.

so i'm not really manipulating.

i just wanna kill.

years later, i am only beginning to come to terms of the horrors of that morning.

and it is a lame thing to respond with violent thoughts but it is also human.

how sad is it to be in this state and to know the truth of the matter?

i've decided

Confucious was and is an asshole.

one day, when i can go back in time i have a sliver of steel for him. yes, i hate him and i hate all that he has left behind for many asian cultures. and for that, i hope i never get to meet his descendents. because i'll have more than words for him. and because i know human anatomy. and because he was a freaking mysoginist. i'm sure i could come up with more reasons.

what do you call someone who is a socio/cultural bigot? just a bigot? hmm...maybe that is just what i am.

just a flashing moment of brimming anger in me.

i think it is healthy, for now...

quote of the day

"Even the Pope wants to halt the hostilities. The Pope is on the side of peace and progress and the British Left is on the side of USA Neo-cons. Oh God." – Jeanette Winterson (in her August column)

i gave her some color, she needed it

i gave her some color, she needed it
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

grit (2006)

she rolls on the grit, from cheek to nose,
from lips to ears and finds herself still,
lying barren on silica seas.

the grains scratches her eyes but it is
more important to see the thing that
might end you so she looks up into
the bitter baby blue horizon.

it is that time of day where there are
no shadows of the sun to protect
and only the gaze of a white hot
observer like your old grandmother
watching over you playing piano.

so she remembers giving up the
instrument long ago but the bars,
melodies, rhythms never left.

they refused the abandonment.
they refused to be unraveled
like strands of cultural DNA.

they believed that the physical
are just canvases for something we
aren't meant to really understand.

they believed that this is all a
test for which we will never, or should,
want to see the outcome of in our life.

no song*

no song*
Best viewed large, click on picture. Originally uploaded by equusignis.

the bird has no song so it holds out its wings, aged and tattered primaries.

the multicolored refracted rainbow has left its barbs.

black is now black.

the color of starless midnight, not the shimmering seven mystics of transparent rainbows nor the pretty of the ugliness of the surface of an oil slick.

gloss and shine given to a dusty pallor, the texture of coal in an abandoned shaft.

the bird has lost its voice, replaced it with gestures.

the movements of a crippled crab.

the shuffling of a wounded sidewinder.

he sits and watches the once glorious creature, stealer of flame, bringer of light now at the end of its short reign.

he sits and watches unblinking, dry eyed, afraid to lose the images.

he sits until the predawn dew replaces the moisture abandoned by his tears.

--

*this was a sketch of someone i spied sitting on the train. he had this intent but aloof gaze as the train moved. i made a quick sketch of him and then added watercolor while waiting for a friend at a café afterwards. later that evening on the return home, he was on the same train. he saw me playing with my tarot cards and asked if i would do a reading. i declined but he pulled out a deck of regular cards of his own from his pocket and started an impromptu reading on me as we chatted. it was an interesting conversation but what was stranger was he was reading things correctly that he never could have guessed so i showed him the sketch i did. we continued to converse until we reached our stop. he gave me his email after i told him i was going to post the drawing. it was certainly a serendipitous encounter. there was more to the conversation but that is another story...

hesitant, expectant and intent

hesitant, expectant and intent
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

they didn't mean to cross paths or even directions yet sometimes intersections can't be avoided.

sometimes separation is not measured in degrees but in speed and direction: velocity.

sometimes we don't really know our personal velocities until there is a collision.

collisions sometimes can be a creative force.

collisions can create entire universes...