Book Things

Twiggy Boyer and I have been working non-stop on a book of collages. It's a lot of fun. Plus it gives me a little more freedom than Alain Corbel's class does. We share equal efforts in every collage. Here goes:

Collage

Here are some things from my Collage class with Alain Corbel. He's an awesome guy but he doesn't seem to enjoy my work haha. Then I told him I was a photo major and then he understood. Anyways, here is a tiger, a kid chasing a huge balloon, a man with a tie, a ship and a tidal wave, a kid stealing a hot pie, and an old man with a bad back.

I'm in this show and you should see it

"Wait...Don't Stop"

Collage
5x8

Packing 2009 in a Box

Eminem, Braces and a dark film

Final Page of the Brown Book (No Title Yet)

I watched as she eventually exhausted herself, her pace slowed to sunken stroll, relentless weave down dank, dirty streets

We're going to stay here for now she told me, grasping my waist with the tightest clench

We'll be safe amongst the vermin, trash and phantoms of homeless men past

That's all a dream now

Yes, if the last grasps for the cold air held any significance-they had to-she was returning to the crag where she began, most would call full circle

It is impossible to be anything but which you were born and bred

Everything thought about me was all wrong
And I can no longer control my instinct to see-saw in the farthest corners of your head

Drawing Game cont.,

Did it make your heart race faster still?

And is it all so undemanding

now that it unravels at your feet, down the long expanse of time yet to come?

Well, no, I suppose not

I suppose it meant little to you

as these things go

I suppose it was just an inaudible pass

of fluids between beings
She admits it now

I was charmed by your advances

And isn't it just wild how the burden of supposition in a crowded room holds no weight?

How it thrives in the unsettled gusts that surround you

passing through the clamoring mouths while you fall, again, silent and still

Two Seed

I've been missing

And I suppose you can call it living
Who's to say?
Shit, you could say things are just fine, and I'm just fine and when I'm gone, my bones and skin will turn, again, to dirt and the earth will continue to spin on its axis

Everything is so simple. See?

I remember the manner in which she clenched her teeth

My lip lodged somewhere in between
And I pressed her spine parallel to the wall

and went after her, I was a lion

She would taste my lust

the way I regurgitated it outside two houses prior

"Call me"

She'd say and I wouldn't
Even though I would want to
I went there because I could, because I wanted to be lost
but in a physical sense, not the way I'd always known myself to feel, inside me

And the following moment?
how to condense it?

I was discovered
The headlights blinding my animal eyes
What was I to say?

My synapses never connected
and in an instant, in a moment I would not remember, all that I had worked to protect was away from me

Oh, no

Oh well

There is a story here that has yet to spawn

and I suppose when it does, it'll be as insufficient and fleeting

I guess loneliness is too far gone, repentance too insufficient

There is something to be said about trauma or the lack thereof
Sometimes it is a thing to laugh about, with solace, in the security of aftermath
Comfort in stability

Baby, How Long?

Things

smmr 09

Dead Things

Brown Book Prose #10

We made our way to a shabby, aged trailer

Deep in the wildernesses of Nowhere, Virginia

Speed limit 10 in Glens

20 on Main Roads

The waters were docile and the green from the trees above

Looked like algae on the water's surface

I couldn't seem to focus on anything but the gravel in my canvas shoes

And she told me there was no time like the present

Well how shall I know she's present?

And we made love so that everyone could see

I realize, now, that we were everyone

We were fighting for our lives because who knows how long we'll feel this young, right?

She scribbled something sloppily in Spanish she probably thought I'd neither see nor comprehend

I told her about my infatuation with this American wilderness

But she didn't believe me

And I sang her that Outfield cover

And she didn't believe that either

I can recall my voice

While checking the time like late December in Manhattan

What happens now?

What does that mean?

I think it means, er...

Is this en route to inevitable destruction?

God, you worry so much

We can always continue from this ellipsis

It has always been a habit of mine

To acknowledge every cloudings potential to metamorphose into a downpour

And I arose to a desolate space

Devoid of all affection

And I realized the seeds I had planted had taken root

Fair to say, packing my umbrella was a worthwhile decision

Eight Mile/Seven Hour Poem

Despite my body's plea for change, I ignore the routine of an early morning trot.

I am fully aware of the dangers of subjective judgement 

Here in this oddly misplaced age of neatly tied neck ties and symmetrically laced shoe strings,

But this God-given free will continues to have it's way.

I am greeted by the mid-afternoon breeze 

And the stench of rotting berries from a tree I've been trying to identify without much success

Even with the assistance of my literature on the flora and fauna of North America

I have the tendency to do nothing on days like this

You know, sluggish, warm, Do-Nothing days

But I will make most of this one as this hazy atmosphere is usually unappealing to me

But has grown resplendent in mine eye

The body is a machine, a mechanism He created with such delicacy

All the pieces packed compactly within a shell

Yes, a machine and machines operate on fuel

Peanut Butter on toast

Great, now we can begin

Public transportation is such a drag and I barely have enough room 

Between two large, odd regulars to think about the unutterable history

Between the number three line and myself

Three stops, two stops, my stop

Oh shit! MY stop!

Minding one's business is a philosophy taught to every youth

In every school yard across America

But I knew this girl from Anatomy & Physiology

God, how I dreaded that class

In all truth,  I find it completely farcical that I often end up

At the hindquarters of every dying discourse

But I assume it's because I'm always conscripting tiny banks of audacity or intestinal fortitude 

For efforts to make my words engaging.

We discuss old passions and what became of whom

I am surprised by a sudden selfishness as she informs me of those doing worse than myself

It makes me feel better about the fact that I am not as ambitious as I feel I should be

Again, selfishness

Tales of aborted love affairs and irresponsible thinking

Bidding farewell, I am late and there is a first time for everything

Breathless from choking down cigarettes, I climb the stairs

Today was a day for damning my existence, evaluating silent romances

And practicing brisk pragmatism

Lists for Liars

To Do Everyday:

1. read a poem
2. write a poem
3. listen to a good song
4. eat good food
5. make something to be proud of
6. express humble gratitude
7. drink good tea
8. touch the earth 
9. watch the sky
10. let go of inhibitions
11. eat fruit (for the body)

I am an avid collector of good cover songs and I have built quite a playlist of them. If anyone who bothers to read this stumbles across a good cover song, please be kind and send them my way

Thnks Bunches,

Keith

Drawing Final: Spring 09

 Portrait on nine sheets of about 12x12 paper and one 15x20

Sorry about crappy wall, but I was in a rush

Johnny Cash

Assignment was to find an image and draw it in a grid. One piece should be larger than the rest.

Close up on largest piece.

Summer Summer, Oh Bummer

Tonight, 

Yes, this very night

A overwhelming wave of melancholy crashed against my fragile frame

And I believe I stood with open arms

Welcoming the tidal wave of crushing emotions

I divulge in literature and writing to occupy my mind but

I have developed a longing for a girl

Who fascinates me more than any other

Yet, who I feel like I only know by the narrowest of margins

Again, typical me

So, the expanse of music collection mirrors my emotions

Throwing at me the sappiest of songs I sometimes forget could bring me to tears

Blah Blah Blah

Oh, and here is my favorite bit

It is completely impossible to know if my feelings of almost deep infatuation are felt in return by said young woman

I guess it isn't the improbable cause of my lack of inspiration, huh?

Oh, and Venn Diagrams!

Lately, these devices of comparison have made frequent appearances in my sketchbook

They seem natural

Organic, if you will

Great, another sad sad song

Only in the summer do I feel this way