Month: December 2015

Boeing Bombs the Last Happy Atoll On Earth; Gets Inducted Into the International Pansy Hall of Fame


2015. Acrylic on canvas, 12 x 12″

I would have less problem with Boeing today, or for that matter, a lifetime, if it could refrain from advertising its mass murder weapons and calling them “Peace Keepers.”

This must be a very short post made as juxtaposition to speed things up. It’s nearly Christmas. I have wrapping to do. And I can hear the big bombing sissy birds up in the sky…

4 B.C.E. — The Prince of Peace born

1997 C.E. — The JDAM bomb born

A nearly word-for-word paraphrase from an article in my local newspaper a few days before the invasion of Iraq explaining the muscular definition of the new military workhorse:

“Within nanoseconds after being dropped above unsuspecting brown-skinned families, it (the JDAM bomb) will release a crushing shockwave and shower jagged, white-hot metal fragments at supersonic speed, shredding flesh, crushing cells, rupturing lungs, bursting sinus cavities, and ripping away limbs in a maelstrom of destruction… Instantaneously, a fireball lashes out at 8,500 degrees Fahrenheit, and the explosion gouges a 20-foot crater and hurls off 10,000 pounds of rock and dirt debris at supersonic speed.”

Maybe the magic of Elvis can remind us English speakers of what once we may have come from. Won’t do much for the unsuspecting revelers on the atoll though…

Maybe you’ll be as lucky as I, and get a Boeing commercial to set the mood.



Trump and Murdoch Have Lunch Together And Dine On The Many Serfs of Ignorance

The Adirondack Creatures Want Him to Expire Pronto

“The Adirondack Forest Creatures Want Him To Expire Pronto” 2010. Acrylic on paper, 17 x 23″

Christmas must be a time to remember all the billionaires who swiped pension wealth back in 2008, and then fall down on our knees to the hate-savior with the five boroughs accent, spewing fear and prejudice faster than the dependent puppies can lap it up. So many people love and admire scaredy-cat Donald Trump, it’s no small wonder they haven’t mobbed up yet and burned to a crisp anyone who doesn’t look exactly like their mob in the mirror. The media has polarized our collective hope once again. If there are 30 people that think like Donald Trump, (not because they are told to by a television set, but truly gut-deep believe his every word), then the American Budweiser Biergarten Nazi party is reborn like anti-Christ in a private plane with several million servants who placate the spoiled brat because they get crime and punishment arousal from him.

I hate ignorance, which is the embodiment of our entire federal political process. Men and women candidates who don’t even know what their job description entails. Demagogues, every one, selling hope like snake oil to a Kansas farm. Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders are selling hope, but the job each is applying for is head of the executive branch of federal government. The latter enforces the laws made by Congress. It is supposed to be the boss of the military. It has its photo taken with boy scouts and it hosts state dinners. It cannot offer hate or love in the flesh. Trump pitches the collective hope of bigots and life’s losers, while Sanders placates the hope of dreamers and life’s losers. A nation of 310 million now picks its President from door-to-door salesmen, all information brought to the masses by a few billionaire media men, one an evil old Australian propagandist who is the spitting image of Joseph Goebbels and proud of it (the painting above).  That liberal New Yorkers haven’t flipped his limo in the street and dragged his rotting body to a solitary cell is proof of the nationwide ignorance I speak of.

We can’t even call a thing what it is when we see it. Thinking on a subject for more than a few minutes is taboo. And, of course, because of our light speed connection, everyone has an opinion. Even fools like me.

The mute majority are ignorant appeasers of institutional evil. That’s most of us. The few good ones are like abolitionists who write and speak to crowds, but only one in 60 million is ever a John Brown.

Trump, Carson, Cruz, and the like can give the country hate. Sanders, Clinton, and anyone else also half-lying to make a sell, can give it non-hate. But they are just President wannabees—not holy heaven-hell saviors. Presidents are good at suggesting bombing or “boots on the ground” in foreign lands of many brown people. They are very bad at “reality” as it is told to them by God knows who. Well, who ain’t you and who ain’t me, because both of us have read this far. That means we thought through a subject long enough to check the spelling. One or two mistakes maybe, especially in capitalization, but hell—we’re not grammar geniuses. And we read a Constitution once or twice long ago, even though it wasn’t mandated by the secret police. And better yet, we remembered part of it! That should count for something, right? The law of the land, three branches of government… Did wonders for that “peculiar institution” called slavery, yes?

The quote in the painting is from John Steinbeck:

“I have named the destroyers of nations: comfort, plenty, and security—out of which grow a bored and slothful cynicism, in which rebellion against the world as it is, and myself as I am, are submerged in listless self-satisfaction.”

The frog in the painting thinks, “Hurry up and croak you bad man”.







I Am A Man Without A Country Too, Kurt Vonnegut. It Feels Awkward


“Learning Some Moves To Stave Off Apoplexy” 2015. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 21″

Politics, sociology, and the institution of the politically correct has me feeling quite low this week. Americans know how something looks on the surface, like the oily top coat of a swimming otter, but ask out loud its favorite fish, or how many radios it keeps in its cozy den, and you’ll get an answer from everyone who has never seen an otter eat or tune in to its favorite popular music. Everyone is an expert of all things that comes out of the mouths of others.

It’s December. I always try to sell light at this time of year. Hoping, like the perpetual fool, that the ship will come in laden with exotic Christmas gifts to pass around to friends and loved ones. I’ll plug one of my books or a couple paintings online, rub my hands together in expectation, wait for Godot until my ear hairs grow several millimeters, to eventually forget about ever making one dime from creative effort.

Here we go…

This from my 2002 masterpiece On Rainy Days the Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself. A book of prose mostly, with a few outburst “poems” interspersed throughout.

Rated PG-13

God Please Give Me a Mop Large Enough to Soak Up the Schlop of Xerox

Just look at the awesome size of it!
It takes some time to pass this pile of
squares beside squares next to
little squares, big squares
on top of so many squares
Call ‘em walls
Steel, granite, gypsum
slabs of death-in-a-box
Hard, bitter waxed floors,
more squares, two or three rectangles,
a triangle and a tiny
octagonal shape from the shy zany architect
who committed suicide right after Xerox—
Two minutes to pass
at forty-five miles per hour
All these squares,
two thousand or more and
wires weaving through wire mazes of
small wires, fat wires, long, very long
thin wires and outlets to outlets to
boxes to more squares
Six hundred thousand outlets
with screws and twelve million nails
Six billion screws
Two trillion black top pebbles
crushed beneath
a constant stream of human headlights
going round and round in circles
around the biggest square of squares
O whippee shit
Big sky my ass!
Big clouds, big snow
O whippy shoot shit
Big sun my ass!
Big moon?
O whoppee whippy shotty shitty woppa wumpa shit my ass!

Xerox in the middle of a forest by a lake
Deer turn a fuzzy muzzle
“what the hump is that?” they ask
Weasels, wrabbits, wraccoons wonder
the tubby house fed squirrels duck under
logs and sticks they stop
they thunder
“What the crap is THAT!”
This is dawn of winter’s day
Look Mrs. Doe, it’s a Xerox!
If you need copies for no reason,
oh my dear deer, you have
bound and leapt to the wrong place.
Probably have to skin your own hide
and wrap the meat up in a butcher’s bag,
drop in the back of a bearded factory
hairy-faced human’s truck—
He’ll bring you inside to his break table
Throw you on it and say something like
“Here Jack. It makes damn good jerky.”

A Xerox
Jesus, bandit the coon,
the nicest old lady in the place
would stab your pups with silver knitting needles
before giving up her
data-entry job with benefits.
All of ‘em, every one
would walk by your head on a post,
over ground
and forest dead and burnt
acid in a stream
clouds raining radium and
constant heavy low moan sounds
rolling across the putrid air.
Any price for squares
cable TV, used boats
fishing poles
shaving cream
bumper stickers that read
“Topless, it’s the law!”and
“Greed is an act of fear”
huge tires
envelopes in the mail
dirty carpets to clean
over and over again,
purple knickknacks
O I can’t write worth an industrial complex today!
Simply put
the absolute truth is this:

Each man and woman to walk through the doors of Xerox would fornicate with a bunny rabbit, if no one knew, and it kept them their jobs.

Love Now For Tomorrow We’re Scampi


2015. Acrylic on paper, 21 x 15″

A repost from over a year ago to shed some light on my feelings for Hollywood. From December. Rated PG-13:

Humanity Vanity

Last night my wife and I watched the movie The Wolf of Wall Street. There is no review forthcoming. Just a statement to heal me this morning. Although very late after the three hour frat party of a film ended, I tossed and turned in bed for an hour thinking up ways to inflame and insult Martin Scorsese, the dirty old man of Hollywood who gets paid a mint to make soft porn movies because he is rich and powerful among other near-death dandys of the same race and gender. They, like Scorsese, are honored among themselves in late life for being humanities’ media crime bosses. I imagined Martin appearing in my house, strapped to a chair, while I danced by him every ignorance and stupidity of American culture I could think up, taking short breaks to shame him the best I could. How good of him to leave us this niche hell of a movie so late in life. How proud his pre-pubescent great grandchildren would be discerning reality between Santa Claus and glorious pretend quaalude sex with hookers. I would ask him man to man how it feels to be in a room directing other millionaires and thousandaires to gang bang like hallucinating monkeys. Is his tongue loll obvious? Is his casting couch still in operation, or do even the most desperate starving actresses cringe at the thought of his wrinkly old man body?
If I want The Wolf of Wall Street in real life I just need to think back to the middle stall in the bathroom of my college Alma mater. There I could find the writing, the plot, the degenerate stories told by that class of Americans who get rich to get old to die unfulfilled, alone, pathetic and sometimes even disgusting. And the Academy will make sure a special tribute is offered. Multiple millions of the world’s comfortable proletariat will be taught by a few loud dogs of humanity what constitutes culture for their remaining quiet nights at home before blowing out a final breath. If I died in bed last night, my Crazy Horse moment would include the memory of a lit candle stuck between Leonardo DiCaprio’s butt cheeks, or the CGI erection of his pudgy supporting actor who pretended to masturbate in front of a film crew at the behest of the great and powerful Martin Scorcese.
Confusion. Enough reality confusion each day while children are bombed by cowardly governments and I sit beside grown men who espouse the virtues of a Walmart Supercenter. And for entertainment digestif, a multimillion dollar three hour movie depicting a rich man’s vile madness—either a wolf of Wall Street or a Martin Scorsese. I could always turn it off, but it would not shame the losers of society any more or less. All peoples connected to that movie, from pipe fitter to enthroned producer, must answer to their own progeny somehow, someday. Martin’s inner circle, the troop of Leonardo aficionados, even the beer buddy of Rick the stage hand will, in life, insulate their leader like all the President’s men. And it will make a good life if the R(reality)-Value is laid on thick enough. Hollywood wins, in life. However, Scorsese has already marked his posthumous legacy with a deep and heavy familial shame. He’s flipped off every child of his line born innocent with the added boast, “I helped make this world you come into. As an elder, with my fame and riches, I normalized insanity. This is what I think of you Great Grandchild. Enjoy Hell. At least I had a great time”.
Loathsome dregs of society like Martin Scorsese bypass our judgment while they carry a loud vanity into old age because each and every one of us is a Martin Scorsese.
I’ll give Henry Miller the last word. From his preface to Parker Tyler’s 1944 book Hollywood Hallucination:
“We credit the Hollywood nabobs with being Machiavellian, because they pander so successfully to the low taste of the mob. We pretend that there is an unholy partnership between Church, State, Factory and Cinema, and the pretension is just. But get a close-up of these cruel, cunning arbiters of our destiny and you get a picture of Everyman when he has emerged from his larval state. They are all walking the treadmill, all harried and ridden, all responding with automatic inflexibility. You have to feel just as sorry for the Pope, or a toothless Rockefeller, as you do for the Georgia convict or Bertha the poor sewing machine girl. The Hollywood stars and the men who promote them toss in their sleep with the same unremitting anguish as the street-walker and her pimp. And while Hitler is at large we all do the goose-step with good grace—all except Mahatma Ghandi who, according to the zombie logic, must obviously be out of his mind.”
Yeah, I agree. We’re all nuts. I can still hope Scorsese’s grandchildren shun his memory tomorrow for the living dog he is today.


Young Professionals Purchase Paintings. Significantly Improve Painter’s Faith In Humanity


Yesterday, a nice couple from the big city came to peruse the archive. They left with three paintings and a piece of my pride. The negative kind of pride, that over time, turns the eager, inquisitive mind into the sour, cynical one. I hope they threw it out the car window on the way back home. I hope a Mack truck hit it head on and killed it.

When we were discussing purchase price, I felt my eyeballs bleeding. I have the most difficult time making trades with money. On the market of widget exchange, they did get a good deal. Likewise, on the figurative market of right living, I secured enough faith in the future to afford rent for the next several months.

Art is for peasants to make. Like good beets or healthy garlic, it should be affordable and accessible to anyone holding enough imagination to want to get up and continue for another day. Thank you aristocrats of the spirit, Tyler and Sophia, for taking a better part of Sunday to purchase a painter’s peck of potatoes.


“Noodling Is Just Another Form of the Pathology of Love” 2015. Acrylic on canvas board, 36 x 24″


The Ignorance of Bliss

“Looking Out the Back Window When You Were in College” 2013. Acrylic on panel board, 48 x 32″



“Strolling Through Central Park Arm In Arm After a Fine Meal At Restaurant Daniel” 2014. Acrylic on canvas, 18 x 24″

Dear Humanity, I’d Like To Know How This Thing Got To Control All of Mankind’s Arbitrary Wealth


2015. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 21″

The greatest poindexters of money science cannot explain this phenomenon. Everyone is confused. Even the President of the Kansas City Fed doesn’t know what the heck is going on. She has a string of lunch dates scheduled each business day far into the new year, and in closed circles is known to screw up the 18% tip every time.

How has history led us to a cabal of black magic money manipulators? Especially in this age, when even small children know that our coinage is pretend. A couple nights ago I traded a painting for an electronic gizmo that can make a banana into a keyboard space bar. I never once thought of the little, old magic lady in the painting allowing for me the opportunity to engage in trade. Where was she a 102 years ago? Geeze, Edison invented electric light, got rich, and touted American ingenuity without Fed Chair approval. America had factories, automobiles, airplanes, butternut squash, and children that still played with neighbor children on the street. Even lasagna was to become popular in urban settings. Where the hell were these old people bozos bossing the earth around with interest rates and secret billion dollar loans? The text in the painting comes out of her high school yearbook. It appears she didn’t even like money. Psychology club, the editor of the school newspaper… What was the “Great White Father”? Scary stuff.

The one glimpse of her future I ascertain from the yearbook accolades comes from her membership in psychology club. I have been reading up on social psychology this month.  I read about a study done on Nazi doctors who got to pick out those who would die for Hitler’s Final Solution. The author of the study found three types of doctor personalities which identified their acumen in a system that already institutionalized evil. There was the sadistic doctor who liked it a lot, a doctor who went “by the book”, following orders without a visible care, and finally the doctor who didn’t appreciate the process at all, but reluctantly agreed to appoint children to the gas stations because society told him that this was the thing to do to keep society in tact.

It is not difficult for a clown-around American like myself to understand how any single human being, once the editor of a school newspaper and member in the Minuteman club, rises to a station of life where all of earth’s trade more or less is directed by her liver-spotted hand. Not difficult at all, given its probable psychological reasons. We, all homo sapiens of earth, are the Nazi doctors’ nurses, orderlies, and candy stripers performing an evil with polished éclat. We don’t just look at the thing and declare, “This is wrong! This cannot be!”. No. We help carry out the institutional evil by forces we like to think are under our control, but never ever are.

I just went to Ms. Yellen’s credential sheet on the Federal Reserve website telling us all is right with the world, so shut up, and go back to work, Mr. and Mrs. Current Employment Statistic! Anyway, she has quite an impressive climb through the best institutions money can buy. Brown, Yale, Berkley… The Nazi doctors went to college too. They became doctors. And all of Germany helped them with the mass murder of their neighbors and friends.

The Great War On Press Cleaning Sheets


“Ethan’s First Look At a Paris Madam”


This is the last war story I shall post in “The Lucky Seven” series. Others I have are too close and painful in the people’s memories. One hasn’t even happened yet (Iran), though the propaganda machine has been in high gear for the past ten years. Back in April 2013, I would work quickly and produce seven of these in a night, starting at 7:00 p.m. Kind of plastic “stream of consciousness”—how one might look at the world while experiencing rapid blood loss because an old man with cuff links told he and his buddies to climb out of a hole and chase into millions of invisible bullets. I don’t think I am any kind of pacifist. I just despise people who think they are old enough to instruct children to kill, and get paid for it.


“View From Troop Ship Crossing the Pond”



“Captain Burke the Maimer”


“Peeking Out of Trench Before Overcome By Mustard Gas”


“Ethan After Overdosing On Mustard Gas”


“Sally After Getting Sad News”


“Flag Found In Mud Pool of Cantigny”