CANDY IN THE MORNING!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?