Stuckism More Relevant While Painters Insult the Master Class


Mr. Maezawa, The Ghost of Basquiat Says That Sniffing America Like an Ass Isn’t Going to Get You Satori 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″

Another small treasure slipping away. Quintus Gallery, perhaps the most beautiful individually run venue for art in New York State, the one which hosted the work of 37 international Stuckists last October, is moving on due to financial pressure. I am very sad to hear this. Sad and mad.
On Valentine’s Day I am having a one night viewing of work by 16 Stuckists.

The Stuckist is opposed to the sterility of the white wall gallery system and calls for exhibitions to be held in homes and musty museums, with access to sofas, tables, chairs and cups of tea. The surroundings in which art is experienced (rather than viewed) should not be artificial and vacuous.

I was never “opposed to a gallery system”. Not the small gallery. I was and am against fierce competition in art, back-stabbing, soul stealing. Many artists today are trying to make their way buying into a visual system that mirrors I Heart Radio corporate crap sniff. Always hoping and praying to be authenticated by the unartists, the business class, the people parasites. Some are boxed in so tightly in university comfort adding little triumphs to their “market me” CV’s. Some are truly just non-creative bores with money.
Lots of money.

Kathy at Quintus moved beyond the subjective—she knew (knows) that there better be a human being in the art, or their is no art. The first time she saw my work I was amazed at the time she took looking at each painting, asking about it, being alone with it, to leave it be for an hour to think about it, to return to talk with me about life, art, history… and then, hooray! Buy it.

She and Joe will do fine. I am not worried for their future.

However, I am calling out the devils which divide us. The following letter to ARTnews, Hyperallergic, Gallerie St. Etienne, and The Painter’s Table I wrote a few weeks before our opening at Quintus last autumn, to uninvite them. I mailed copies to each institution. Cost me five stamps, but well worth it. In my opinion they are poisonous places to which Stuckism remains a potent antidote.

Quintus is (was) a worthy middleman to art. Small galleries could and should remain solvent into the 21st century. But we’ll need to kill the art celebrity as soon as possible. For Wednesday’s show I am making shrimp bisque and buying up as much sparkling wine my family can afford. Come by and get stuffed, but you better promise to look at what we’ve painted. Just look at the paintings. None of us need a helper to tell us what is good to look at. Not at Manhattan rent costs. Only avarice can come from that.

Letter to ARTnews, Hyperallergic, Gallerie St. Etienne, The Painter’s Table, and ewwww, gross—Juxtapoze

110 Greene Street
2nd Floor
New York, N.Y. 10012

Dear ARTnews,

A gray, cool autumn morning here in Oswego, N.Y.—my favorite kind of day, which I began in the basement painting and listening to Van Morrison records. I waved my wife off to work and looked to the sky getting grayer, and made the psychological small jump to mow the lawn before the weekend rain comes, and the grass gets wet and clingy.

These cool, intellectual days I think about everything, and during mundane moments of mowing the lawn or doing the dishes, I let the muse in to determine which direction the juices shall pour, not flow.

Today, ARTnews and Hyperallergic got in there somehow. Also Galerie St. Etienne, and then I just let the three of them sit down for a smoke and a talk in the situation room that is my brain. The small Internet site called The Painter’s Table stopped in later on, while mowing the backyard, and I vowed to skip the morning painting and let loose this meeting of my very limited access to the art world that comes via the business Internet.

This spring the Galerie St. Etienne returned the self-published books I sent to it six months prior, along with a kind letter expressing regret that it no longer sought outside contemporary artists. I found it strange to send back a gift of kindness, as might a team of lawyers scheme to thwart liability, and not accept it like any curious human being with a heart would. My God, I thought it was a gallery, not a law firm!

Anyway, it was kind to send reply—the one in a thousand received over my long painting and writing anti-career. It seems that Galerie St. Etienne respects the unknown building block (the artist) who gives credence to the myriad of buildings hanging pictures on sheetrock for profit. There is no bread and butter without cows and grass. Few galleries seem to get this, and those that do just might be the human ones that organizations like ARTnews don’t need to write about in wonder why they are struggling to make ends meet.

Now I have sent presents of my books to Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and I believe even The Painters’ Table because I am a painter, not a businessman. I send them with hope, never greed, and each facility should know that I have done so for many years to many individuals and institutions because I am an expressive artist, not unlike many who begin in a similar vein but end up working for the business of art. I am expressive, yet also hungry—not starving—just seeking enough financial success to keep from falling back to line cooking in my late middle age. I love to paint. And unlike a choreographed Mick Jagger, Jeff Koons, or ARTnews, I seek just enough dough to continue to do so.

Also, I loathe promotion more than I adore self liberation. So it is no thrill for me to seek approval to those who can help deliver a meager cash flow into my home. But I do it anyway. Because I am human and made of carbon and contradiction.

Now this morning Hrag Vartanian, a self ascribed promoter of art and culture at places like L.A. round table discussions, white-washed Chautauqua Institutions, and that beloved next-gentrification called “Brooklyn”, wrote in a fast tweet, like our dear lonesome president, his frustration at being used as other people’s “PR”—I assume he meant “public relations”.

Who wouldn’t be? All people just want to be loved for the right reasons. Nobody likes the feeling of being used. Like me, Hrag is an expressive individual, and I often even agree with his knee-jerk politics. Again, like me, he is probably also a bit delusional. However, I know this truth: He uses Twitter® more like a gossiping school kid than a person actually interested in painting. Privately I bet he’s a great guy, loved by friends and family, as well he should be. However, publicly I see him as an arrogant vanity that holds power and influence over others, and seems to like it, almost sardonically. To contrast, I will only express my overt arrogance in private, to my wife, children, and maybe a few close friends. To me, as a man and artist, that is my social success. Unlike financial success, I do not need to hope for it. It has already arrived! Likewise, as a painter and a man, I don’t need Hrag through Hyperallergic to promote me as a painter. I expect it.

As previously mentioned, I do seek financial dishwasher status in the art world. It is his job as editor and founder of a popular art blog to review me and many others in a very long list, else apologize readily for the insurmountable backlog. Otherwise, he and other institutional aggrandizing promoters like him (ARTnews and The NY Times) are irrelevant. All profit-driven art propagandists are no more than a bullhorn for established galleries like David Zwirner, and also that lying piece of billionaire tax write-off auction brothel, Christies®.

Here is why. No artist is or can be profit-driven and remain an artist. That should be the #1 precept printed poster-sized across the wall in art editorial rooms. Again, if it’s not what you stand by, then, as art promoter, Hyperallergic and ARTnews are irrelevant, just another businessperson’s scam.

That is my private belief now made public. I feel a strong connection to the art movement Stuckism, which keeps me painting when nobody, especially the bought and paid for editors of popularity, cannot recognize a damned kindness from an artist when they see it (a free book promoting other painters). They do notice his query about advertising, however. Why shouldn’t they? These institutions, like individuals, also seek financial success, and work hard to achieve it. When there’s a potential paycheck in the e-mail, then of course, open it up. I also trash the spam. Nobody likes the beggars, whether dressed up corporate crisp, or down, door-to-door like the ragman. I do not argue Hyperallergic nor ARTnews their desire to stay relevant, and likewise, financially afloat in the media sea of art. Their inevitable defeat into the 21st century is due to reliance on income from established wealth when the new age promoters of art (humanity) seek magnanimity in culture, as well as the pretty pictures. ARTnews cannot survive continuing to cherry pick what their readers need to “see” art to be, while relying on established interests to promote the vicious circle of money = relevance = money. A paradigm which is anti-art in a nutshell, and shouldn’t take a nutter like me to show all and sundry. I think the real world of humanity gets it. The Painters’ Table I forgive because it’s too small yet to hate painting enough to profit enormously by it. I think the editors are sincere—visually anyway. They probably don’t “see” like I do how many of the painters that they highlight love money almost enough to eat it. These editors seek pretty pictures with a twist—rarely human paintings by people who wish to liberate us from what ails us.

By the way, unlike Hrag Vartanian, I also do PR for others, and enjoy it very much. I’m doing it now for an incredible gallery show that Hyperallergic has taken no interest in (until it is celebrity of course, mainstream, established—like gypsum dust in wallboard). I’ve written to Hyperallergic about it without reply, also ARTnews, NY Times, Central NY newspaper arts editors—Cornell University art professionals (the painting professors!). I send postcards. I send exhibition or creative books to others. I ask that this show of 37 painters living in 9 countries be well-attended—to honor each sending his or her work from far away to a little community in the center of the real art world—which is any place where art for art’s sake thrives, and profit for more profit’s forecast dies.

Quintus is that small “struggling” art gallery that ARTnews and Hyperallergic cry crocodile tears over. Like the artist, it too can be the canary in the coal mine to profit-driven culture fabricators. Quintus Gallery is poised to make history next month which the next generation of art propagandists will glowingly report on because some influential gallery in Singapore needs Christies, Inc. to buy this dead painter so and so’s life to make another billionaire lie work for the billionaire. I say to these future struggling institutions of irrelevance, “Go eat cheese!”


Hear ye, hear ye Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and NY Times! I officially uninvite you to Quintus Gallery in Watkins Glen for opening night on Friday, October 13, from 6 – 9 p.m. You like money, maybe status too, but not art. The Painters’ Table can still come, if it stops looking do damn depressed. Either way, it would do itself a good turn to invite just a wee bit of Stuckism into its sycophantic soul. Heck, we’re all painters, aren’t we? Wake up!

Just this moment the magazine Juxtapoze popped into the smoking room of my muse. It is even more un-invited than the others. And if I catch any of those phony art and artist killers lurking outside the gallery on Friday night the 13th, then I might actually become bouncer and kick those bony phonies into Seneca Lake!



The Problem With Politics Is Gossip, Not Feeling, Which is Art and Literature


“My Teeth Overhear Their Fate at the Periodontist” 2015. Acrylic on canvas, 20 x 16″

The Twitter editor of Empty Mirror, an online weekly literary journal, tweeted this on February 5, 2018: “Cleaned a bunch of the political stuff out of my feeds and I feel so much better.”

And that was that. Contemporary literature died. The people who came to read about the dead Beat poets, or dead Henry Miller, or perhaps dead political screamer George Orwell, found a zone free of annoying, present-day political matters, such as nuclear proliferation, Syrian refugees, or the coming environmental catastrophe that even the dinosaurs wouldn’t get the chills to witness imaginatively. The editor freed his or her feed from U.S. politics that, since WWII, have ballooned, by the breath of a mighty superpower, to lord over all life on earth and atmosphere.

Hurray. At Empty Mirror we can adorn our meditative consciousness with the fineries of life brought to us by writers of the past. Or, at times, click into some present day, university graduate’s careful art to keep our precious, unearned joys leagues away from dirty politics.

Here is what I say: There is no literature or art without politics and philosophy. Everything good that came before (in modern times) has been provided by super sensitive people reacting to the political environment of their day.

Writers and painters today have a slick, state of the “art” smartphone and a two-year contract with a corrupt and very political corporation.

Enough said.

Unart comes from comfort. Ask any artist alive today, if you are able to find one on or offline.

Those who do not want their minds sullied can clean their Twitter feeds or react like Barbara Bush when asked about her son’s philosophy of having other people’s children’s legs blown off by Empty Mirror’s tax contribution to American politics:

“Why should we hear about body bags and deaths? It’s not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?”

Perhaps the editor of Empty Mirror, who no doubt is a kind and sensitive person, views art and artist how another editor of a garage press reacted to my efforts on what turned out to be the last time I tried to get an unartist to recognize a work of art.

From Just Another Stuckist in Oswego:

I have theories about this starving artist dilemma. Many spring from the field of social psychology. Here is one:

None of us are any good until many of us say that some of us are.

Each failed writer or painter needs, more than talent, a promoter with Biblical outreach. If Beyoncé (accent on the e) wore the teeth image (painting above) to don her Super Bowl outfit, I would be rich and known richly by morning. Target® would call for a wall hanging product line, and the New York Times would best seller me. If Oprah got caught reading less trite and inane crap, maybe some of you talented writers could afford rent as well as dinner, and miraculously the Media-CIA Industrial Complex would suffer sinking ratings of its perpetually popular “Let’s Dumb Down America Now!”.

All fine literature, music, and art is relegated to obscurity if not considered salable by a connected media entity. Here is a rejection from a book publisher I received a couple weeks ago, followed by a quote from Henry Miller who wrote meaningful desk chair philosophy at a time when art was the artist, and not bullhorn announcements from high-rise promoters about the “state of the art money”.

You do seem passionate and, as you wrote, “determined,” so I’m sure this won’t stop you at all from continuing your search for a publisher. I would like to suggest you consider self-publishing this manuscript. Just from reading the first sample parts you sent me I can tell you it’s going to be a very difficult sell to any indie press. Forget about even going to the majors via a literary agent. It occupies too much head space, in my opinion, and while that’s not a bad thing at all for some readers who enjoy that sort of thing, commercially this would be extremely difficult to convince anyone to spend any money on reading your words. Even if you have some clout due to your painting, it is pretty thick stuff to get into and stay into. I don’t mean this to sound mean at all. I just feel that this is the kind of book that may have a life as a self-published work. Save yourself the time and trouble of querying anyone else and publish it yourself, then I would suggest perhaps focus more on the marketing end of the book rather than getting one of us snobby publishers to approve it lol. I hope you’ll agree.

A nice, honest rejection. I agree with him. I prefer to self-publish. But to make me a marketer of my own work is like asking a corn farmer to peddle boil-in-a-bag on the street corner. Doomed to failure before the manure is spread.

My reply:

Thank you for a fast response and helpful criticism. Self publishing is the right way to go. Whitman peddled “Leaves of Grass” door-to-door, and look where that got him! No one then (or today) would publish Whitman’s work to make a living, yet countless entities do exactly that today. For me, it has become some personal badge of honor to be an unread writer in the 21st century. Like threshing wheat over a storm water grate. Very nothing, and yet some thing very good too.

Just doesn’t pay the bills.

Here is Henry Miller:

Most of the young men of talent whom I have met in this country give one the impression of being somewhat demented. Why shouldn’t they?  They are living amidst spiritual gorillas, living with food and drink maniacs, success mongers, gadget innovators, publicity hounds. God, if I were a young man today, if I were faced with a world such as we have created, I would blow my brains out. Or, perhaps like Socrates, I would walk into the market place and spill my seed on the ground. I would certainly never think to write a book or paint a picture or compose a piece of music. For whom? Who beside a handful of desperate souls can recognize a work of art? What can you do with yourself if your life is dedicated to beauty? Do you want to face the prospect of spending the rest of your life in a straight-jacket?

I suggest all writers to read Miller, as Miller wanted to be read. Read me first. He’d dead. And I could use an art-paid-for loaf of bread.

Empty Mirror should understand this age old dilemma if it wishes to represent the greats of modern literature. Allen Ginsberg was not apolitical. He was politically agitated, turning his private anger into digestible, public art. Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, any literary celebrity of the past whom we prop up today was, while living, a rabid politico or shoot-from-the-hip philosopher.

I believe the editor of Empty Mirror is probably sick of the political gossip he/she sees and hears, rather than politics as they pertain to the present and future machinations of the human race. The former is a game played online by bored and unfulfilled human beings—a kind of collective in-group solitaire to stave off the agony of emptiness which fills up in those people who are unable to express or seek art and literature to comfort them in difficult times.

However, I hope Empty Mirror can see that it wouldn’t have a platform to stand on if it were not for politics of the past which goaded so many artists to react to a world gone wrong, in their time. Reaction to the insanity of world wars, nuclear weapons, the devil in capitalism, religion’s vice-grip, ignorance and fear of the masses, etc., were not deletable on the intellectual browsers for most of the 20th century.

It’s good to kill the gossip, but don’t ever lose the politics. So many people suffered angling you, dear Empty Mirror Twitter editor, toward an easier life. If you want to understand art and artist, never become a Barbara Bush, who just closes the door to the ugly which we all are until the time when we are not.

Enter the reactionary writer and artist of today who would become known tomorrow if editors and gallerists were less apolitical gatekeepers, and more sensitive to the needs of those who express the culture freely.

Welcome the politics, Empty Mirror Twitter editor, yet seek the artist who can turn the lack of generational courage into a work of art.

¡Viva el politics in art!


I Made an Anger Painting Without Hurting Anyone


“A Kentucky Senator With A Dynamite Auger Drilled Through His Neurocranium” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 8 x 10″

Not too long ago at a poker night excuse to drink beer I was stuck in argument with an economist friend of mine about the U.S. tax system. At the time I knew a young man, just a year out of high school, who, upon graduation landed a job in a local factory making shoe boxes. It was the first year he had to pay federal taxes and Uncle Sam was expecting 17% of his income (it already took a big piece bi-weekly, but wanted more to make up the difference). My friend the economist thought that 17% actually might not be enough and suggested that maybe this young dude shouldn’t complain so much.

I was nonplussed. All I could blurt out was something like “That’s a lot of rent money to extort for another aircraft carrier!” I would hope that my friend got my meaning, but I believe it was lost to him. I don’t think he knew offhand the actual percentage of U.S. budget getting doled out to the military (few facts are surmised these days without iPhone back-up), but I’m sure he knew from private living and teaching experience that it comprised an eye-popping chunk of the treasury’s mother-load, and then some.

Worse, he probably went home and thought dualistically about my politics, as many often do—that I must side with evil if not the good. The “either/or’es” —you’re either with us or against us. The people who despise the out group and distrust those within. A very lonely club devised long, long ago by the first man to ever use the goodness of another for personal gain.

What I meant to say on poker night was that I would expect to pay 95% of my salary if I believed a government was using this money to help care for my family and yours.

All caps following, and I seldom use all caps:


The players think they got us by the sneaks. That in order to be good children we must pay our federal tax or else face the consequences. And the super majority of us will pay, no doubt about it. It’s scary not to. Good Americans, like good Germans before them, do not like to break the law. The players assure us it ain’t all that bad—each person is well represented by an incorruptible congressperson overseeing an arbitrary block of 600,000+ people, or, as in the case of one of my senators from New York, a massive baying herd of over eight million people.

I think you can tell where this is going.

Because we have no say in the money and how we are “protected” by decision-makers in Congress, then I declare that institution unlawful and illegitimate.

So, I believe we have an out-of-control state run mafia that does not show the slightest indication that any day now it will turn itself in. What to do…

I do not advocate insurrection—even while Congress legislates to kill off Americans. I do not think enough of us are angry like people of the past who were starving and therefore prone to anger. How many of us have a smart phone contract? Raise your hands.

See? We’re not truly angry resistors. Neither to Trump mafia nor Obama mafia. Actually in the great line of time, the super-majority of us are just ineffectual political wussies. It would be okay if some of us weren’t going out and copying our negligently homocidal legislators with horrific crimes to humanity. That’s what happens with disenfranchisement. The desperate with nothing to loose start hammering away at those whom they think win all the time. Even folks like you and me, working check to check, yet still attempting a check to power, even in the most limited ways.

Both Democrats and Republicans are ignoring a single-payer system—they take our tax money and provide insurance companies with sick, paying, animals. Both are guilty of watching our families get sick and die with our own money. The game being played now is refereed by Big Insurance and Big Pharmaceutical (“Big” is their word, not mine. I believe there are no tinier humanoids in the land).

I can explain this painting and therefore exonerate myself from the partaking of any violent radical acts in the future. I have my alibi, and owe much of its construction to the first career I could obtain while coming of age in crazy county, U.S.A. Whenever I’m given a bloated piece of anger meat, I let it rest for a few days. Then I marinate it in acidic thought and reflection, turn the burner up high, and sear in all thoughts worth keeping. I never take anger out of the kitchen and yet I rarely dine alone (Thank you wife and Internet). Onto channeling my next career as painter, which hard copies an illustration of a bloated Kentucky senator making decisions with the money I put aside for upcoming life and death. I don’t like his ideas. So I paint a dynamite auger into his neurocranium.

Works for me!

I can do this because I’m an artist and not a killer. I wish no final future for this man different from one of my very own mother. A peaceful, non-painful demise. I’ve smeared the end of the dynamite auger with an instant-acting opiate releasing ten times the strength of the most non-lethal morphine injection.

Again, artistic license. What else can a poor boy do?




I’ve Decided I Don’t Want Nuclear Power It’s 9:00 A.M.


“Nuclear Age Flowers” 2015. Acrylic on canvas board, 16 x 20″

Yup. I can declare it because I am an artist. I have determined that the atom is not ours to manipulate, so there—it’s all settled. I am late middle-aged, a father, one day a grandfather, and an artist. Therefore I have more sway than the Grand Poobah of the military, the political hack, the parasitic corporate executive, the plumber with a dream… Why? Because I am a failure at collective thought, groupthink, mob rule, democracy and all isms leading towards extinction. I live between four industrial plants splitting the atom for trucks and cars, and many McMansions where the atom-splitters dine on almost fine cooking. Ah yes, as artist, I am also a better cook than the atom-splitters and their ladder-up or ladder-down ilk. As artist, which is failure, I answer to myself and my love alone. Myself and my love alone want nuclear technology to cease. All except for medical procedures that uncancer the children who suffer tumors for the “greatest generation’s” psychotic fear of their own timidity towards men in lab coats. Back in 1958, instead of “ducking and covering”, little Teddy’s grandparents should have been disjointing the joint chiefs of staff.

No worries. Myself as artist has matured, and declared the end of the nuclear age.

The New God Nuclear

Last year I scoffed at the venerable Krishnamurti who once declared that the world problem is not the individual problem. Meaning that one should not bother about outside trouble until he has cured his own ailing soul. I rejected such a selfish philosophy after I woke up one morning to the doom that the world is being held hostage by nuclear weapons. There would be time I thought to play happy swami in full lotus after the earth was rid of the threat of six-hour annihilation. From this day forward, however, I will thank the new God profusely. Thank God—thank you real, honest, and true, new God-Nuclear… that to be born again is exactly what humanity has longed for deep in its heart of hearts ever since the first creative superstition helped the confused hominid choose the correct leaf to eat.
That is this:
We have it now. A final proof of God. Proof of an evil force, like satan, proof of hellfire, damnation, tortured souls, happiness beyond comparison, proof of extremely efficient punishment to sinners and infidels…
This God-Nuclear is real. We have seen him spit a gob at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and just like that—200,000 people, six million birds, a trillion plants and animals liquidated! That is a marvel. Barefoot Jesus made a blind man see? Whippety-doo! Small time trick of a holy, hack magician. Then this new God-Nuclear got an overnight head cold for the latter part of the last century, and now a billion women are destined to have one or both of their breasts lopped off. That is efficient punishment. Forget those whining Christians with their girly talk about “the rapture”. God-Nuclear wipes his ass with Revelations.
It was last year when I laughed at the selfish simplicity of the new atomic wise man, Krishnamurti. Now, after humbling myself to the new light, after meeting the new God-Nuclear face to undeniably magnificent warhead, I see that the skinny, big-eyed prophet was absolutely right, no matter what his initial reasoning. The world problem is not my problem.
God-Nuclear has knocked that huge chip off my shoulder. God-Nuclear, thank God-Nuclear, will take care of the world. Seven of his grand thermonukes detonated on the same day will strangle our dear atmosphere to death. That is a real, powerful force! Not likely Mohammed ever imagined such a blow! He was content with fire bolts shot from the clouds. Maybe a dark rider on a donkey wielding a magic sword to slay the wicked. When superstition was all guesswork and faith, who knew what the punishments would be?
So much confusion, too many impressive demigods, little miracles, maidens and buffalo boys, entire planets and stars teeming with the unpredictability of life and weather, existing together as one big family on the shell of a floating turtle…
Once, not too long ago, every devout Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Iroquois could go into himself to perfect existence, to maintain an almost ecstatic peace and harmony. Poverty was praised, for the religious life revealed successive rewards. Karma was very real. Should life, with all its intricate detail, ever veer off course, then watch out for some nasty personal consequences!
Back in those golden days of doing good for fear of God it was bad to be rich, good to be simple, bad to flaunt style, good to sleep under the stars…
It shall be like that for the visionaries once again. We will have our new Buddhas and Jesus Christs. They will carry on with amazing humility and silence, so beautifully, leaving nothing to the world but their fading inner light.
God-Nuclear exists for the increase of our spiritual bounty. No more guesswork. There truly is Kingdom come! Armageddon ain’t no lie. Why on earth are those crazy nuns beating weapons into plowshares? It must be a blind, raging jealousy of the greater, truer god. Their ancient spear and sword god comes from the darkest of dark ages, before Thomas Edison, Gatling guns and incendiary bombs. It was the Manhattan Project, not the knowledge of Jesus or Vishnu which separated the savage from the civilized.
God-Nuclear waits underground with a wide, knowing smile. There is one God and it just doesn’t matter what anyone gets from this knowledge.
What that means for the spiritual boobs…
It means get back to work all of you! You are absolved of sin. The superstitions have vanished. Droughts are explained. Famine understood. The plague is all about not washing your hands after drinking shitty water. Lawlessness happens mostly from having no fear of an angry god.
Get the most out of life. Forget about progeny if you must. Love is okay. Hate is okay too if it brings you joy. The only consequences left are those wrought by breaking man-made laws and the inevitable doom of eternal silence brought to you by the new and improved good God-Nuclear.
But this should only bring the happy ones closer together.
Spirituality, devotion, gentleness, compassion—these things make life worth living. More so with the knowledge of certain death for everybody, including the unborn’s unborn.

Under 30 Dream Writing


“The Bodhisattva Poses With Her Anniversary Pot” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

From Leopold Courting Rose, a book of year long thief letters in an attempt to steal young girl’s heart… It worked.



Okay, you’re lucky. No notes about thighs, eyes, sighs—I shall write to you a confessional. That is my desire for this Tuesday morning, a little over a year gone by since I first held your hand. Always in the library I am on these fall days when I have a greater sense of the life within me. Since childhood I have revered these moments spent in the gray cool morning. As a man I am still overcome by them. They take my breath away. Delve me into dream. Retard me for the betterment of self.
I am the happiest man alive. Now at twenty-nine years I scan the shelves of books with the small part of my brain that seeks to know some other man’s happiness or misery, and this I do for a good long hour to end up cursing the great ones, because I know that good behavior will never get published in a book I write. I hate them, and deliberately misplace their works back on the shelf because they don’t deserve all the attention I give to you in dreams. This makes me happy. Dostoevsky will mingle with Thoreau probably until the next time I arrive at the library to mix things up again. Then I will carry that Russian idiot over to the Hindus, and all the dead philosophers can argue over who is more miserable in their time, and therefore deserving of recognition. The Hindus laugh. The Buddhists snicker. Saint Testicle wears a hair shirt. Good god, they’re all jealous of each other. Petty fools. They’re dead! I have nothing to share with them. I am certainly not going to give you away. No more sacrifice. You are mine, and these skinny legs holding practically double my body weight will prove it. I hoist my pile of books up to the counter, check them out, and take our happiness outside where it belongs on this perfect day. Here in the gray light. Shoulder my backpack, hands thrust into corduroy pockets, and the long walk back kicking the leaves high. I am alive with you. That is all we need to read about.
Two years ago about this time I was being haunted by a dream ghost. You were coming into so many dreams at a time I was out of myself and delusional. Stuck in New York to wallow in my misery, which I did very well, a strange man equipped with the special powers to plan and execute his own demise. I was well aware of all my moves, fully conscious and sane, for I knew all along that I was torturing myself. Oh, but I felt alive. I went on long walks throughout the city. No different from today, except the feeling was different. I could lose myself. With both hands in pockets, I walked through Central Park oblivious to all around me beside the sound of my own breathing and footsteps.
Today is a day like many I lived in New York. Inspirational feelings abound… They take hold, control me, pull me back to the realization that I was “chosen” for this day, so I better make the best of it. Humans share this ability to not take for granted each moment of their lives. The novel won’t amount to much if it be replete with paragraphs about shopping for shoes.
Anyway, I feel then what I feel now. Every move I make I make for the biographers. I live my life as though I am being watched. A one man act, who writes his own plays, and performs on the road. These are the romances I have been writing. I don’t think there is anything wrong with this type of behavior. It’s original for sure. And it gives purpose toward realizing fatherhood, companionship, poetry, self-liberation… Whom do you know, other than yours truly, who would live a whole sober day in this super economy, solely for a meal? Who but village idiot Ron would give up certain lifetime security if it meant losing his ability to dream of you and the impossible requited love on a ten mile walk around New York City? Who besides a fool could claim one of his happiest days penniless with a borrowed cup of coffee, sitting on an Upper West Side stoop dreaming of her? Just dreaming? She didn’t even know him in that way. She barely knew him at all! But he knew about her. All the important things. He knew that if she ever took the plunge with him, he would always use a good olive oil when cooking for her, no matter what the cost. He would over-elaborate in poverty. It’s what poets do. Every man would become a poet for the woman he desired. And the woman would only respect poetry offered. All dealings with security and pension into old age would be mutually respected, after love. But love must come first, and love can only be born of poetry.
So he walked a long day and in the evenings sauntered into any neighborhood book store. His story gave him the strength to seek comfort in the stories of other men, dead and gone, who would never get the chance to know his joy and suffering.
From the stoop on gray days like this I would watch the many girls pass by, think of you, and suddenly see your body down the street on your way to class. Your face on every woman. Your eyes glaring into mine. Eyes so sleepy, wanting a warm boy to curl up with under covers. I thought of you thinking of me on a walk and talk along the lake shore while having conversation with a friend. You wanted me to hear your laughter and listen to your speech, its tone and vibration reaching all the way to Larry’s cold November stoop. These Autumn days I would keep with you. In evening the street lights exaggerated the wet of rain. You dreamed of me in the Chelsea bookstore walking up an escalator to my favorite authors. They were going to write about our life together from now on.
Rose, you are in time a mystery to me. I will not become familiar enough to let you go. I still cannot pronounce your name correctly. This time spent with you has been streams of evenings on Larry’s stoop wondering how perfect the world would be if you would just let me hold your hand.


The Last Anxiety Dream


“Rose Left For Work This Morning With Her Nose in a Better Place” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 11 x 15″

Rose is my wife. Or, I am her husband. They say possession is 9/10 the law, and to anyone looking, it’s obvious that we are close—married to the hilt— bearing all the positive and negative of that attachment vice/virtue the Buddhists claim is soul draining. So, emotionally, we possess each other, for better or worse, like good/bad attachments. We “get it”, and flow fairly well together, through good and bad, in concert with fluctuating hormonal balances—her month, my month, hair loss, hair gain… We have nearly mastered the art of cohabitation, and she, whether realizing it or not, is primed and ready for a sweet nirvana, if she ever desires/not desires its potential awakening.

Me, on the other hand, is an anxious mess. The culprit (if I must ascribe blame. And I must because I am not healed) is culture, and the roles it pressures us into, wittingly or unwittingly. Rose is breadwinner. We eat and stay dry and warm because she maintains acceptable work outside the home. A steady job that pays well enough for me to stay home and keep life about us steady and content. I am literally bread-maker—stay-at-home cook and part-time butler, part-time painter, writer, curator. These are the chores separating me from Rose, for we are both very sensitive, full time spouse and parent, and there should be no comparisons made in these departments. I am an okay cook, decent butler, yet would fail the most basic Emily Post white-glove inspection.

Selective breeding among male Throops carried on fairly well without me for 56,000 years, and then Rose and I came along and upset the stream. Damned it up good and proper, I’d say, for I haven’t gone a day in my adult life without some manner of confusion about my place and role(s) in a society that worships nothing but abstractions—namely, money.

To say I am an anxious person would be a gross understatement. I am more like an outwardly successful squirrel, yet unsatisfied with myself in a world of squirrels that covets and adores a mutual abstraction. Squirrels around me who act like squirrels day after day, accumulating nuts, building impressive nests, braving seasons and storms, but underlying every accomplishment is the pressing desire to accumulate the abstraction that will make the squirrel a new squirrel, refined prince or princess in squirrel kingdom. I am infected with the abstraction also, which makes me a constantly dissatisfied squirrel. Let’s say this abstraction occupying us squirrels practically night and day is the desire to accumulate human manufactured snow-globes. Many generations ago, some wise and economically trained squirrel scribes thought to create a falling leaf money supply to ease and simplify transactions among squirrels of Squirreldom, however knowing the ubiquitous existence of trees, sought a limited, countable base currency to give an abstract value to something that was readily available in Squirreldom—leaves. Leaf banks opened up practically overnight, followed by upstanding squirrels founding colleges and universities, the development of a million acceptable leaf-paying occupations (none of them nut gathering), and finally a culturally devastating, squirrel-separating atomization.

Anyway, I had a dream last night, my last one about money if hope can help it. I was at Donald Trump’s next wedding and the cheapskate expected a gift. 60 dollars is a lot when you can’t make that in a month from painting. Rose’s brother from D.C. was there with his wife telling her in a false admiring, deeply condescending way, that it was “too cool” that I painted—Oh, but I could see the mockery in his eyes and hear it in the tone of his voice. Shamed again! And not for the last time that night. After the gifts were laid out for all and sundry to see, Trump had my gift, a painting, taken out and thrown in the trash. Rose confided to me that she provided a back-up without my knowledge—a Samsung® tablet for the new bride. I was so mad. I stormed out of the tent and went to sleep on a servant’s cot in some nearby dusty garage.

The end.

Faith that my marriage is secure, I intend to reach my end beating to death inside me this false god money. Whenever I have deep doubt, (and that is as often as dinner), I will take that negative energy and with it,  push as hard as I can into a positive dream.  This money god has got all of us squirrels absolutely frazzled. All my nuts aren’t secure, but I know where to find them. I had no faith in gods. I want no faith in money. I’ll play my faith at this marriage and focus my dreams on a persistent present moment. I will continue to write and paint erratically, like a squirrel caught both ways in the road.

Friends, family, and safe acquaintances, please continue to buy the paintings I paint and books that I write. Heck, $50 is “better than a sharp stick in the eye”, as my bodhisattva wife often proclaims. I leave you now with a few paintings by me and a song by someone else.

“The Bodhisattva Poses With Her Anniversary Pot” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

spirit animal

“Is the Squirrel My Spirit Animal Or Am I Just Hyper-Paranoid?” 2015. Acrylic on canvas, 14 x 11″


“In November, 2051, Rose Will Be Out in the Backyard ‘Digging a Goldfish Pond’. Just Wave, and Carry On” 2017. Acrylic on Alexey’s packaging particle board, 12 x 16″

Please look the other way, and just listen….