SHINNYO BOOKS

DO YOU KNOW THIS WOMAN?

2008-05-22T16:15:00.000-07:00

YOU SHOULD KNOW WHO SHE IS....

BITS & PIECES FOR THE WORDMAN

2008-05-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

STEEL RYDE is the coolest rock band to form in the last 100 years. Sure....we have yet to perform, we've been working on our demo longer than G & R has been working on Chinese Democracy, and we have about as much time to put into the project as the latest #1 radio hit. But, we progress. We ARE making headway. We are jamming out some riffs and we have been able to pen about 30 songs. Now we just need to put them all together.

We have been writing like crazy. Some ideas pan out into gems, some pan out into turds. It has been a pretty cool trip. It has been fun. I suspect it will be something I enjoy doing for a long, long time. Lately, though, the writing has been slow. Instead of full verses, the words have been coming in lines. Instead of choruses...I have phrases.

Here is a collection of what I call BITS & PIECES. I give these to Stryker for inspiration. Sometimes, he will even keep a line!

BITS & PIECES

TOO MANY CHOICES
Too many choices
Don't make 'em pick
Let 'em have 'em all
Notches on the stick
A long list of ladies
In a porno flick
A million candles ready
Just light their wicks

NEVER ENOUGH
Don't you know / She likes it rough
Don't you know / She never gets enough
Don't you know / She likes her ponies pulled
Her body is a temple / Cast in Gold

She's a high priced lover / With nothing to lose
She's a kinky little beauty / With a taste for booze

PISMO
She was a blonde haired bimbo
With an insatiable libido
Her favorite place to party
Was ‘neath the pier in Pismo

RHYTHM OF ROCK
If you're lookin' for money
Babe, we ain't got shit
Not a single f#&kin' dollar
No #1 hit

We're just rockers wit a line
and we know what looks fine
Feel the (thump of Tom's bass riff)
OR (lick of Ferrari's riff)
OR (beat of Viper's bass drum)
and gimme what's mine

Move your Booooody
to the rythm of ROCK

I tell you what.....being a ROCK STAR is tough work, especially if you have a one-track mind!

REPOST from SARAH VZ

2008-04-28T10:08:00.000-07:00

READ BELOW. WE SHOULD ALL PAINT OUR NAILS!

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Work sucked and my allergies are killing me, so this week's HNT is late and brief!

We found out last week the Doctor's cousin has an large, ugly tumor in her stomach region. Not fun. Her family, however, has shown tremendous love and support and a terrific outlook. I admire a clan who can stick together and see the positive.

One of their, I must say quirky, ways to show support was not only naming the tumor, Toby, but by also starting the trend of "Toby-Terminating Teal" nail polish. The whole family, including the males, has painted their nails, at least for a brief moment, and sent a picture showing the cousin that she's cared for.

So here's my support to the family that I've wiggled my way into:

This actually shows a lot of support since I hate my toes.

I really just hate feet in general.

------------------------------------------------------------
The polish is: Wet n' Wild Caribbean Frost. Available at Walgreens!

Paint your nails, send me a picture at tony_persons@hotmail.com, I will forward it on to Sarah who will forward it on to her boyfriend's cousin! Do it! I dare you!

Read more of Sarah's blogs at http://sarahvz.blogspot.com/

AUTOBIOGRAPHY (1)

2008-04-27T17:04:00.000-07:00

Here is a part 1 of a long poem in progress:

Incense ash hanging by a thread like umbilical cord – dancing silk wafts of smoke reaching down in rhythm to my tea cup steaming – Chinese Black Tea – cha – window shade open to let in grey shine of fog in winter January – like a black & white movie the colors of the pine and shrubs are dulled. No blue no sun no movement except for the dancing plumes of this incense stick as it burns down over skull dish. Beautiful smoke designs like expensive fabric in high winds, or a flag on high staff with a light shining up from the ground. I remember sitting at the breakfast counter on vacation in LA at the home of family friends and watching their cigarette smoke swim around hair and head in the air lingering making rivers of smoke currents – hanging streams. This incense the same, but much more pleasant aroma. It dances just the same, but does it have the same ill effects? It doesn’t matter really. This vision it conjures up is a pleasant one. Cats in the house, and comfortable chairs and a pool table on the screened-in porch – game after game of pool to the tunes of The Doors – LA Woman – and BBQ Weber Grill and steaks – always good food, good laughs, good TV, good times with Disneyland just down the way - we always paid it a visit – two birds . . . Mickey Mouse and the Matterhorn and Tomorrow Land. I was born in LA – Huntington Beach – with pier and sand and surfboard shops on old downtown strip – bikinis and skin and broken sand-dollars along the shore. Wave one after the other moving in and taking the beach out with it – 1969 – October. Month of Halloween howls and goblins – trick-or-treat is my favorite holiday with vampire bats into blood sucking monsters and werewolves that slash the hearts out of pure innocent angels out knocking door-to-door looking for free candy handouts. I like Halloween – it’s my favorite holiday. Huntington Beach we lived on the corner of Main in the corner house next to the corner mortuary where my old man worked – 625 Main Street – a yellow place with porch and windows and neighbors on all sides – dead neighbors on one side but neighbors just the same. I stubbed my toe in vacant lot across the street – lost the nail – OUCH – and sat on kitchen counter crying while mother snipped off the hanging part. Blond hair kid left in walker and then filmed on 16MM – home movies – “You loved that chair,” my mother saying as we sit around watching the funny looking kid staring blank at the camera in the front yard while world spins and days become night – we laugh – brother and sister laugh. I was born in 1969 in Huntington Beach. I was very young. Just a kid – not even in school yet, but there was a bus for that – a bus for a kindergartner. The house on the corner is gone now – torn down and leveled for parking lot spaces for the dead relative family and friends. One needs to park once in a while. People die – check out – fall asleep forever. 2 hour parking – quiet please the dead are trying to nap until the resurrection of the body. Corner cleared and paved over and lines of battle drawn – painted in white with several blue Reserved slots for our handicapped brothers and sisters. Now visits south with family friends ever once in a while – been six years or more since I’ve been there for pool and darts and cribbage. Too long between . . . too long . . . gotta get back and feel the surf crash into my legs my shins soak me – out on the horizon always a tanker carrying zillions of gallons of crude – back and forth along the hazy horizon disturbing the sunset scene all orange glow and sizzle as the sun goes out. West Coast night hand-in-hand walk footprints washed away.

Winter January cold – stuffed up sinus – coughing that destroys the voice box quality. My eyes hurt. Sick Sick Sick. Sleep would cure me but it don’t come easy – toss and turn so much to do but don’t want to do any of it – want to read and paint and write and walk and nothing else – sex too in afternoon romp // these would cure me but my mind and body are weak like my legs were weak in 1987 ailment that left me stretched out on living room couch in muscle pain cramps – unable to move about freely / unable to stand on tippy-toes / limping from couch to bathroom and back for months – staggering up to receive high school diploma in June – summer and vacation and abduction into alien craft in Idaho mountains – or Montana? – Hungry Horse Reservoir and the Lost Johnny Trail up slope (I couldn’t make it) and lost memory (and time?) unconfirmed. Years later I couldn’t remember ever being there. Was I there? Yes sir/ pictures prove that but I’m missing the memory of it. A vague remembrance of standing knee deep in icy chill water as other fish, but how much of that is picture memory? How much is authentic? O the silver craft that carried me away – its lights blinding and the metallic walls cold around me – Pitter-patter footsteps and big eyes looking down on me lying there exposed. Did we play cards? Did I teach them the magic of cribbage? Search out scrabble words in a jumble of tiles? What happened to me there? Was there the classic anal probe? Or the drill bit into the eye and tubes from above into the stomach for research? What did they want with me? The animals / the creatures of space that spit me out ill and alone on the Lost Johnny / so many years ago. This is my autobiography – where is it coming from? Movie? Book? Authentic memory? My god-forsaken imagination? None of it really matters. What matters is the rain – the snow and rain that falls onto the pavement and into the gutter and down the drain and into holding areas and back up into the sky and all over again. It has snowed in the valley before – but first snow was Roswell snow – O no back to the aliens again – winter 1982 – New Mexico – land where my father searched for a new life and took us with him. Not much good out of desert dwelling back then but the winter. White drifts of soft white ½ a foot deep falling in flurry blizzard – school closed and tree branches iced over – bitter frost to the bone cold – snowballs, snowman, snowflakes, snowplows, snowdrifts, and icicles. Icicles – swords – frozen blades hanging from roofs edge and tree limbs.

Looking out the back window of the laundry – converted to a Rock & Roll den – an escape place with tunes cranked and whirling cycle of the dryer keeping beat and keeping the cinderblock cave warm. It was a room off the garage, off the kitchen, off the dining room, off the living room, off the hall, off my bedroom shared that I shared with my country music loving brother – a large poster of Willie Nelson looking out over the room, keeping watch, making sure the walls were not poisoned with images of heavy metal GODS – AC/DC – red light image of Angus Young – his head a blur – his Gibson SG soaked. Willie watched out and made sure the room was kept pure – kept the devil in the laundry room where he belonged. Outside the window white, a blanket stretched out over yards shared – a community? – we never saw a neighbor one that I remember – so a blanket white reaching, virgin, untouched, no sex for me, lost in adolescence – snow like aerobic workout bodies stretching, reaching, falling, moving to the music of winter. It was so cold. The walk to the bus stop for our trip into school seemed a million miles – feet frozen thru only a few feet from the door. Slushy ice gutters and silent cars moving on to work. We threw rocks into the trees to cause a crash of ice – a frozen waterfall of ice crashing down, burying itself in the snow. Tree after tree crashing just the same. It was a long walk to the bus stop. To school – middle school – a long halled school that was alien to a native Californian – they had corporal punishment policies for crying out loud – foreigner with VANS tennis shoes and OP t-shirts who had never touched a surfboard in his life – a Valley boy growing up 3 hours from anywhere but they didn’t know that, they didn’t know. Every door opened to the ocean, every address was Los Angeles – bikini babes with blond hair and an appetite for going down as babysitters/or girlfriends/ or slutty pick-ups. “What do you mean you have never had a piece of ass? You’re from California ain’t ya?” Let’s Party! Surf’s Up, Dudes!

I grew up in the Valley. Sunsets made orange red burnt by dust. O but they burn. I still see it. I’m still here! The Valley holds you. We were one year gone, only to be pulled back by the curse. Is it a curse though? 99 a blood vein that is so much a part of me it will never clog. The smell of onions through Atwater have never faltered, never weakened. The shit smell of my home town, Turlock, has grown worse – I step on the gas and fly past the Lander and West Main exits. More people, more houses, more strip malls and Wal-Mart’s, but still so much a part I can not deny it’s place. One year gone – away – taken by the alien existence to another planet – I’ve written of it before. Only one year then back to the old house, the old realm, the old address – 433 South Laurel – two blocks off Lander at the 711, across from the Exxon station and a stones throw from Glen’s Liquor with it’s racks of every porn magazine imaginable. The Valley. The Valley. The Valley. I live here still.

DUDES WHO WRITE THE WORLD

2008-04-21T13:19:00.000-07:00

There are no words for these writers......

I could go on and on and on and....

BUBBLES ARE MAGIC

2008-04-17T10:47:00.000-07:00

Bubbles make me smile. The solution is a mixture of oily rainbow colors stretched across round wand tips, moving in a psychedelic light show. Breeze from nature or mouth expands the slick, threatening to snap, but it doesn't. I grows, billows out until it lets go and drifts with the air of our atmosphere. We chase them, reach for them, try to catch them, pop them, eat them. For a moment in time we are innocent and on a quest. We are children regardless of age.

Grace had a bubble party for her birthday. Bubble technology has improved. Now there are bubble machines that pump out 5000 bubbles a minute. I bought one of these machines. I hooked it up and turned it on. Our yard was engulfed in magical bubbles. The children that came to the party were running around, screaming at the top of their lungs as they ran through this cloud of dancing soap suds. I bought a variety of personal bubble making devices as well: wands, gadgets, fans, sticks, and guns. It was AWESOME! Everyone was laughing and squealing and enjoying each other.

Magic. Wonder. Bubbles. Love. Cake.

A REVIEW FROM DODGER-CHASER

2008-04-10T15:37:00.000-07:00

This is a movie review from my buddy, Dodger. In regards to the new STONES flick, his words are my words exactly!

SHINE A LIGHT

Papa-T & I just went and saw Martin Scorsese's Shine A Light documentary on the Rolling Stones at IMAX. It was a total blast. I also bought the two disc soundtrack (even though I own every album the band has made). Even though I've seen the band live (1994), it was a worthwhile experience.

It was filmed about a year ago in a fairly small theater (New York's BEACON THEATRE) to an audience of about 3,000 (quite a small venue for a band that usually only plays for 30,000 plus). This made for much better sound quality than their usual stadium shows. The show was some sort of fundraiser for global warming awareness or some such environmental concerns, and Bill Clinton introduced the band (that man is the essence of politician charisma in a down to earth way).

The downside to filming at a political fundraiser is that most of the audience members are middle aged suit and tie wearing country club liberal types who applaud at the end of each song as if they just witnessed Tiger Woods make par on the 11th hole at the Buick Invitational. But the film's producer appears to try to make up for this by putting all hot young skimpily clothed chicks in the front row.

The film's highlights are three guest appearances. Jagger's duet with Jack White on Loving Cup and with Buddy Guy on Champagne and Refer were vintage. When I found out that Christina Aguilera was going to sing on my all-time favorite Stone's song, Live With Me, I thought the tune would be ruined. Much to my surprise it was the highlight of the show.

It's also nice to finally have a version of Some Girls that I can play in public without the dreaded reference to what black girls want to do all night long. The best songs were the hidden gems from Let It Bleed and Exile On Main street that haven't been overplayed by DJ's during the last 35 years. My only criticism of the film is that a few of the songs played from the Some Girls album lacked the cocky playfulness they had from the original studio recordings. Far Away Eyes sounds flat and lifeless. Also, Keith Richard's vocals were showcased on the mediocre track Connection. Though not the best singer, he has done much better songs over the years (such as Little T&A which was included in the expanded two disc soundtrack) that would have fit into this film much better.

I have listed some songs I recommend for download. Though every song is great, the songs I recommend for download are the ones in which the live versions captures a quality not present on the studio original - each of which you may have heard hundreds of times already.

4 STARS

Recommended Downloads: She Was Hot, All Down The Line, Loving Cup, Champagne and Reefer, Live With Me, Shine A Light.

DYLAN SCHEME TO A FUNK BEAT

2008-04-09T13:18:00.000-07:00

Sitting in an all day meeting yesterday, I thought maybe I would be able to scratch out a verse or two...maybe a chorus to the next #1 Rock & Roll hit. Not a chance. The best I could do was a couple bad lines. Nothing to get excited about. In a field of clover near the white cliffs of Dover. UGH. I haven't been able to write anything worth using lately. She was a blond haired bimbo with an insatiable libido.

Dylan is a real songwriter. So many hits, so many perfect rhyms. I have always been a fan and have always wondered what it would be like to write something on par with what he would scribble out. It'll never happen, but I could play the game. I could rip him off, or at least rip off one of his schemes. My favorite song has got to be It's Alright Ma (I'm only Bleeding)

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child's balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying.

Five rhyming lines with a sixth line kick

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool's gold mouthpiece, The hollow horn
plays wasted words, Proves to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying.

The sixth lines rhym. Nice. Easy.

But mine will be a funk jam....

KEEP FROM DYING

Every other shiny coach a celebrity sits in style
Chauffeured home to a sea cliff thrown made of gold and silver tile
Face-to-face with the average joe, cars crawl from mile-to-mile
An Oscar winner, a blond haired starlet, both with a working file
Paparazzi push and shove for a picture of a painted smile
That wonders how the world will keep from dying

The go-go dancer needs to stay upon her neon box
In painted shorts and halter top, she is a seductive fox
Between each crazy mixed up tune, she has no time to talk
It never once occurred to her that she had the right to walk
Come morning light she sits alone on the deserted boating docks
And wonders how the world will keep from dying

Bossman executive in a high rise corner suite
Looking at the city lights from a patten leather seat
Sippin' gin martini buzzin' while a tiny little Asian lady rubs his feet
To carry a nation on a dollar bill is his music with a beat
His social welfare program is a beggar man's meat
That will keep the world from dying

A drunkard sits and contemplates the essence of his grief
With every bottle and every shot the bartender brings relief
There was a time when life was good but those days are short and brief
There are angels watching over us, this his one and only belief
All that was is found in the velvet lined pocket of a lifelong thief
Who is stealing all that'll keep the world from dying.

In a room of broken bottle tears you made an awful fuss
I couldn't find a comforting word so all I did was cuss
We drove together in awkward shame for you to catch a bus
I stood alone as you pulled away, it all settled back to dust
Go get yourself together, babe, and the we will deal with us
And do what we can to keep the world from dying

OK.....maybe not so easy.

TURLOCK

2008-03-31T22:19:00.000-07:00

WHERE THE HELL IS TURLOCK, AND WHY THE HELL WOULD I WANT TO READ A LONG-ASS POEM ABOUT A GHETTO VALLEY TOWN?

Digging through my garage looking for that lost poem I found an old journal that contains the long unfinished poem, TURLOCK. It's been at least a couple of years since I added to this thing. The entries are not dated. The last one is about Vern Olson, the old man plummer I met while working at the Cheese Wheel. He died in late 2004. So, it's been at least that long since scratching any lines. Regardless, it has been pretty cool to look it over. There's some pretty good stuff in it. Lots more to go. It isn't even close to being done. Here's a sneak peak....

TURLOCK
unfinished

WEST SIDE:

I. Lantana

– a fireworks shrub –

a million clusters of color

Vibrant bursts / explosions

and ever blooming – yellow, orange, and red

backed by a deep green leaf

and swarmed by butterflies

– small orange and gray flutters

reflecting the sun –

American Coppers

with their own little butterfly lives,

their own simple butterfly universe

– The Camara Universe –

– The Planet Ingelsheim –

Taking their nectar

finding love

Leaving their homeland unscathed

Fiery and overgrown

Passing it

one would nearly need to step

into the gutter

– The sidewalk was swallowed

– consumed –

Like the others

this universe was expanding –

filling up the tired West Side space.

We would stand at the pungent shrub for hours as kids. It grew out away from the side of the shed on Vermont Street. We would be sent out with clippers and trash cans to cut it back, but we were always sidetracked by the butterflies. There were thousands of small Coppers on the bush. We would scoop the butterflies into our hands, let them flutter about in our cupped palms and let them go. Sometimes we would shake our hands about to daze them, then laugh as they swaggered away like a drunk after last call – no longer smooth, their flight was topsy-turvy.

FROM THE ARCHIVE

2008-03-27T16:00:00.000-07:00

OK, how long have I been writing? Ah, HELL'S BELLS, too f-ing long! I remember scratching out a poem in high school about some cloud or something and the girl in the row next to me looked over and asked, "What are you doing?" I looked at her and replied in a matter-of-fact manner, "Writing you a poem." She rolled her eyes at me. Her name was Becky.....something. I remember calling her Becky Thatcher, after that cute little vixen that stole Tom Sawyer's heart. Not that this high school Becky in the next row over stole my heart, but she was cute (if I remember correctly....it's been a long-ass time!)

The poem was bad. But I will allow that it contained a certain level of energy that emitted a sense of obsession - like Tom S tried to express to the love of his life. I guess within the poem can be seen a suggestion of unrest and need for adventure like what was provided in the novel as well. Had Mark Twain wrote the poem, though, it probably would have come off better then it did. Twain had wit and wisdom....I was a wanna-be joker with very little work ethic and no drive. I remember this poem. But, it is lost. I can't find it. So, I dig deeper.

The following is the earliest poem I ever wrote (that I know of, or that I can remember). Fifth grade, Osborne Elementary, Turlock, California...

Motorcycle

2/26/80

White, red

Fast, dirty, jumpy

Fun to ride

dirt bike

How's that for freakin' POETRY???!!!

NEW DOODLE SCRIBBLES ON PAPER

2008-03-25T22:09:00.001-07:00

I can't explain my current need to doodle. I am not sure why the scribble has become a part of the product, just as I can not explain my obsession with spirals from years ago (although that ancient symbol continues to show up time and again on the paper). It is what it is, and while I am coloring I am in a happy state. I feel connected. So why fight it?

I can't remember where I got the drawing tablet, but I carry it around with me with a tin of oil crayons. Gracie sometimes joins in the fun (see Disneyland from Sheraton).

Title: 2554126 Shoes?
Origin: Feet are not my favorite. Anyone who knows me knows that I like boobs the best. The naked foot to me is lacking. The piece it is lacking is an object of affection. Some would call it a shoe fetish....I just think the foot needs to be covered.

Title: CD Cover Sample
Origin: Paul Lucckesi asked if I would draw something up for the '08 BHS Jazz CD cover. This is my first attempt. Don't know if I like it.

Title: 2554126 K GOLD
Origin: Jack & The Beanstalk.

Title: Disneyland From The Sheraton
Origin: For the first time in years we stayed at a hotel other than one of the resort hotels. I had forgotten what a nice view the Sheraton offers. Gracie and I worked on this one together.

Title: WHALE
Origin: Who the hell knows...???

Title: Vermilion / Silver Grey / 2554126 Blue
Origin: Sometimes I like to make a squiggle line then fill in the shapes with color. No hidden meaning here. In fact, you ain't gonna fine any complex meaning in any of my work. Symbolism, message, theme....all that takes time. I like to work fast. If a drawing isn't finished in 5 minutes then I start getting cranky.

Title: Untitled or I guess I could call it: Bug and Candle
Origin: It just happened. I have no idea.

Title: 2 Questions
Origin: After visiting a bunch of galleries in LA I went back to the hotel and thought about how all my favorite pieces of the day were made of lines, either scribbles, or patchworks, or something. This is what came from my meditation.

Title: Hippo (Maybe?)
Origin: Again, me and Grace playing with color crayons and me experimenting with spontaneous line formation. Simple. This one is my favorite.

NUDE ART UCLA

2008-03-24T18:23:00.001-07:00

What better way to follow an Easter post in which I proclaim my mystic beliefs then to lay down some lines in adoration of the female form, as seen on the campus of UCLA. I visited the university for the first time a couple weeks ago with a couple of my co-horts. We were on a mission to scope out art and the UCLA sculpture garden gave it up. What impressed me most was the vast variety of forms found throughout the area. By "forms" I don't mean just the female form, although there was a fantastic selection to see. I mean contemporary, modern, abstract, classic, coo-coo, weird, stunning, and everything in between. There is a D. Butterfield horse (Pensive, 1996), a spinning steel number by George Rickey(Two Lines Oblique Down (Variation III) 1970-74), a bunch of Matisse's, the list goes on.

The real gems are found in the Rolfe Courtyard. 11 bronze beauties by Venice, CA sculpture, Robert Graham (the same dude who made the Roosevelt Memorial in DC). These forms - now I am talking about the female form - are part of a collection called, Study For Duke Ellington Memorial. Dazzling, completely realistic, and NUDE these statues have been the subject of praise, outrage, controversy, vandalism, and admiration. I think they are beautiful. More than anything else, these figures portray WOMAN: Stoic, stable, powerful, alluring, sexy, lovely, worthy of complete respect.

That UCLA would be bold enough display this collection makes me wonder if the powers-that-be at Fresno State would have the juevos to do the same. Fresno does have a sculpture garden of sorts. Their "PEACE GARDEN" is speckled with sculptures of peace activists: Gandhi, MLK, Chavez. But, there is nothing to match the Graham collection. In front of the Music building there is a sculpture of three topless dancing youths. A nice piece, but lacking in the level of emotion found in the Graham nudes. The valley is too conservative. They support the arts, but take no chances. Too bad.

I was so impressed I went back and scribbled a tribute.
And don't even get me started on the Gaston Lachaise sculture, Standing Woman, 1932! Good Lord! My goodness, she would tear me up!

CANDY IN THE MORNING!

2008-03-23T20:42:00.000-07:00

I wore my Jesus shirt today. It is a black t-shirt with a white guitar pick on the chest that reads, PICK JESUS. I figured it was my EASTER BEST, so on it went. No one thought I was funny when I said I almost took a sharpie pen and added an apostrophe S and the word NOSE to the silkscreen....Pick Jesus's Nose. So I represented my Faith based beliefs today. Christ is Risen! Truly Risen! I have lost count of how many times people have looked at me with a puzzled look in their eyes and asked, "You're Christian?" I laugh and answer, "Well, sure. Can't you tell by the way I live?" They never know how to respond.

I love Easter even more then I love Christmas. There isn't the same volume of gifts at Easter as there is when we celebrate the miraculous conception and birth of the infant Christ. The Easter Bunny doesn't have the elves and the sleigh to prep and deliver gifts like Santa has. So, even though the gifts are fewer, the candy is better! Reese's Eggs are better then Reese's Trees, and the See's Butter Eggs are decadent. Gracie LOVES EASTER! The Easter Bunny delivers her basket right in her crib! The candy is just waiting to be eaten when she wakes up at 7 AM! So it was this morning! I grabbed my camera and Grace squeezed her eyes shut and said, "CHEEEEEZ!" The chocolate coated her teeth and melted in her hands. Mmmmmm!

SPRING BREAK 2008

2008-03-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

Work let out and right away it was off to the HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH - Disneyland! Oh, the plans I had to find a balance between the DARK RIDES of FANTASY LAND and time in my journal. Time was when I could travel and keep a travel journal. I would unwind at night with observations and poems and doodles / I would soak a brew and reflect. I packed my usual bag: book, journal, pens, iPod, stamps, address book (I could NEVER forget the POSTCARDS!). I had it all. But, come nightfall, it was all I could do to read a chapter in the final year of HARRY POTTER. I'm getting old, and Grace keeps me going, and when she naps....I GOTTA NAP! That is just the way it is. I wouldn't change a thing. AND, what a GREAT TIME WE HAD! Good times! All the Fantasy Land rides, Monsters Inc., Bug Land attractions, Finding NEMO, Pirates, and , of course, the Haunted Mansion.

So even though no one got a postcard, it was a rewarding experience. And fear not, I was able to draw one doodle and scratch one line of verse.....not sure if it will be a poem or a ROCK SONG....or anything at all!

UNTITLED/UNFINISHED
by -papaT 3.17.08

Every old man I see
is Hunter S. T.
with gold medallion and chain
A safari hat / pills for pain

Hmm...looking at it, it ain't much. In fact it ain't very good. But, who cares?! IT'S SPRING BREAK!

AGAIN BEGIN WITH A POEM

2008-03-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

Just shy of a year since my last post and I can't help but wonder why. Well there are many reason, but none that really hold water. How long does it take to post? Not much. The biggest reason is that I am in a ROCK BAND! We haven't gigged yet, but we have been busy busting out original tunes, tinkering in the studio, and getting ready for some summer JAMS! Still, I guess I coulda posted some poems, or some art, or some commentary, or whatever. But, I didn't. It is what it is.

Anyway, just got a letter from j-dog. Enclosed was a short note and a poem. I share the poem with you now. SHINNYO BOOKS released j-dog's first book of poems some time back. It is entitled Q & A. This poem is new and was not in the collection. ENJOY!

HELLO AGAIN
by David Joseph Persons 3.9.08

I pulled my old bicycle
down from the rafters,
knocked the cobwebs from
the spokes and pumped
up the tires with the
wood handled pump
A quick shine,
a squeeze of the brakes,
a few drops of oil on
the chain
and I was ready to roll

My legs felt like
leaden weights,
my butt had
forgotten the feel
of the leather
saddle
But the same breeze
still blew across
my face and the
same feeling of
loosed liberty quickened
my heart as I headed
out of town - east,
towards the country,
toward the rolling
foothills of the
Sierras

On that old bicycle
I used to do a lot
of thinking
about life,
circumstances,
nature
and God
We had a lot of
conversations
God and I,
we had a system -
I'd complain about
something or other,
He'd listen,
laugh,
and tell me to quit
being such a baby
I'd pedal and bitch
He'd laugh then say,
"Hey, look at this!"
And a red tailed hawk would
take off from its
barbed-wire perch
He always amazed me like that,
with something special
for me on my bike
And whatever had been bugging me
soon didn't seem
that important
But the jackrabbits did,
and the kestrels,
the flocks of ducks and geese

So now I'm at it again
same bike,
same country roads
But it's been a while,
a long while
I'm not sure if the system
is still in place
I pedal along in silence
trying to muster up the
courage to say something,
anything,
feeling like I should just
turn my bike around and
go back home
when I hear a sound
A sound like laughter
faint at first
then louder
then no mistaking
a clear ringing laughter
"You big baby! Come on.
I haven't gone anywhere! I've
been waiting for you! I've got
something I want to show you.
Here, look at his!"

PEACE POETRY

2007-05-14T22:37:00.000-07:00

Poetry is steeped in emotion. Creativity comes from emotional highs and lows. I like to write when the weather is cold and it is raining and I am moody. I would love to be able to throw down the verse when I am up and feeling no pain, but I am too busy having fun! I write when I am pissed, or wailing injustice, or gloomy.

Ginsberg liked to keep it political. In his days as hippie dude flower power beatnik carry-over, there was plenty to scream about. Brautigan kept it kooky, but you didn't need to be a professor to understand the underlying message of dissent. Poets are an emotional bunch. They are random, bipolar, insane, disgruntled, depressed, searching.

This war has people on edge. Poets are back at work. There is a ton on work being produced and shared and printed and recited at open mike nights around the globe. Most of it is lousy, but some can cut a gems. I remember writing about the first Gulf War seven years after the operation. Saddam had invaded Kuwait and Americans kicked Iraq's ass back across their border in a matter of what seemed like hours.

Storm

We were standing out by the trucks
in the parking lot
of the Stockton
March Lane McDonald’s
listening to the radio
reports
on the first US air strike
on Baghdad.
Some of the guys were
cheering, shouting,
dancing the jig,
while others
crowded in closer
to the pickups
to hear better
as traffic
rolled along in it’s
normal afternoon routine.

I’d fly 6,000 miles to smoke a Camel

And I remember feeling nervous,
unsure
of what would happen
after the strike was over,
what would happen the next day.
There were rumors of DRAFT
and politician promises
that "This will not be another Vietnam."
There were discussions
about SCUD missiles
and nerve gas.

At home, I watched the first
footage out of Iraq –
the shooting star
tracers of antiaircraft artillery,
the night vision targets
of a sound asleep enemy,
military strongholds
and reported shelters
of the madman, Saddam.
Later we were told by decorated
military spokesmen
that the assault
was a success
and that ground troops
were being readied
for action.

I closed my eyes
and wished it all away,
but nothing happened,
and it’s still there
like an infected wound.

I CANT SEEM TO WRITE ABOUT

this war. I can't commit myself to a poetic burst. It is like it has sucked the dissent out of me. I have been against the war since it's first thought. I have no alternative to offer, but I remain opposed. It is still here like an infected wound. Others have been more successful. I leave the job to them. I am in no hurry. I wrote Storm in 1997. I printed it in my book Nevada Falls and the Stranger There With Arms Outstretched in 2002. The poem is now 10 years old. Iraq ain't going anywhere soon. I figure I have time.

WEBSITE: POETS AGAINST WAR

POSTCARDS

2007-05-10T21:14:00.000-07:00

What is the attraction? What is my obsession? I have boxes full of blank postcards ready to be written, painted, and/or collage-ed. I love postcards. I think I know why. Let me try to explain.

Postcards are kind. Who has ever heard of a mean postcard? They don't exist. Postcards require effort. They require thought. Postcards require someone to think of another. Most often postcards arrive from the road; the receiver admires the photo, then turns it over and smiles at the idea that Joe Friend stopped to take the time to buy a card, find a pen, jot the wish that they were there, buy a stamp, find a post office or mail box and drop it in. That is a lot, especially if you are traveling through Arizona in an old Mercury without an air conditioner. To subject ones self to the elements in order to ensure a postcard arrives to its destination before the trip is over? That is love. That is the magic of postcards. Postcards care about others. Postcards can save the world if we let them.

Who does not like to get a postcard? No one. Everyone loves to get a card. My mother, when we were young and on our annual road trip, used to yell in a long continuous sing-song voice, "Pooooooostcaaaarrrrd!" whenever we passed what most people would call a "calendar location." I would open my napping eyes and look out the window, not wanting to miss the primo scene. Soaking it in, I would drift back to sleep to the roar of the VW engine.

Even a simple collage of beer toting chicks and an lingerie clad Brooke Burke can bring a smile. I know what my buddies like. They like babes, so I made a postcard and sent it along. Simple. A phone call will follow a few days later when the card arrives at the address. "Dude! Thanks for the card! It is awesome! So, how have you been?" A conversation will ensue. It's all good. Again, the magic of postcards.

Summer is right around the corner. It is postcard season. Send one to someone. I dare you.

BERTOLDI: REVISITED

2007-05-08T16:36:00.000-07:00

These images send my eyes to spasms. The eyes and limbs and petals and planes and bombs and guns and bugs and noses and nooses….and…and…and…

All of it blends together into a mass of black and white. Nathan Bertoldi’s work over the last seven years is captivating and frightening. Assembled from a vast collection of acquired images each collage offers a commentary on the modern experience that is known only to the viewer. There is just so much for one’s brain to take in. Image upon image of romance, separation, war, history, science, nature and more keep the viewer bouncing in a constant mind melt of cognition, a test of one’s schema.

When I first saw his work in mass back in 2003 at the solo show opening in Tulare, California (The Fresno Art Museum later exhibited the work in January, 2006) I was immediately impressed with the continuity of the pieces on display. From the center of the gallery one could spin a full 360 degrees and have the sense that the show was made up of pieces from one continuous mural - identical frames and paper and copy spanning the walls. Step closer to the glass and the themes of each piece stand alone. Step even closer and the images that make up each collage splatter your senses like an imploding grenade – shrapnel flying in on itself in a massive spiraling pattern that leads back to Bertoldi.

His work is magnificent. Poetic.

Revisited
for Nathan Bertoldi

This image was tight
Intertwined
Cryptic
And full of hope
With eyes
And hands
Reaching out
Reaching up
Offering something more
Than a lost ignorance
More than a blind observance
Of humanity’s movements

The eyes were watching you
The hands were touching you
You were moved to another plane
While there across the room
In the corner of a widow’s web
Was a gallows
Built for the dead man hanged there
Executed in a leap of faith
While an organ grinder
Played a dirge
And his monkey collected the change

The details of this vision
The scent of the flowers in the room
The sounds of silence bombs in free fall
Demand a response
Temples and skyscrapers beware
From behind bars
A Chimpanzee is watching
And hidden in the crags a snake readies to strike

TOULOUSE-LAUTREC

2007-05-03T10:04:00.000-07:00

Measuring in at a whopping 5 foot, this little dude could paint, and print, and illustrate, and pretty much create the image of hazy sensuality. Even through a fog of alcoholism and the syph (did I mention the long genetic history of inbreeding?) Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was able to paint the bohemian experience of late 1800's Paris. You gotta love it! The stories surrounding this artist are....well....a bit on the wild side: cabarets, theaters, brothels, voyeurism, booze, lesbians, prostitutes, mistresses, and ultimately a stay in a sanatorium before croaking at the ripe old age of 37 (Hey! I'm 37!) What a guy! It is no wonder I that of all the paintings in the colossal Getty Museum in Los Angeles the one that knocked me over was by him.

The Model Resting (1889) is just two paintings over from the famous Degas pastel, Waiting (1882), yet carries so much more than any Degas I have ever seen. I was mitten, mesmerized, and just flat-out WOW'ed. I had to sit and stare.

Is there any wonder why I would pick The Model Resting as my 2007 Painting of the Year?

BEGIN WITH A POEM

2007-05-02T15:44:00.000-07:00

Maybe I can use his BLOG as an instant publisher. Everyday I can throw up a poem, good or bad. Throw up? Did I say, Throw up a poem? What does that say about my poetry?

This one goes way back. I don't even remember when I first wrote the rough. It will be printed in my new book HWY 99 NORTH (which is printed and stacked in my garage, but isn't yet put together).

Dialogue

What’s so funny?
Oh nothing.
What is it?
Just this article I’m reading.
What’s so funny about it?
Oh nothing.
What’s it about?
Just this guy and a bowling ball.
Is it his bowling ball?
Yeah, but that’s not the funny part.
Well, what’s so funny?
Nothing.
Will you please tell me?
You’ll have to read it yourself.

In the picture above, by the way, that is my mother-in-law behind me. We were at Disneyland when the picture was taken. I love Disneyland.