Monday, December 31, 2007

*a poem

Awe the edge of the brink
The outer core the inner lip
The end, the rim, the beginning, the tip
Stretch to it and leap taught my friends
Like a sinew of a violin string
A buttered guitar sings
And drum pads into a dream
Fauxplay to a sin of passion
Brings me to a written attack
My inner muse
And phantom woo
“I want” writing never turns out good
Crouched, hunched, hot
Hovering over keys
Fingers poised for attacking
Like lions teeth in jaw in bush in nail in claw
Zebra skinned screen await me
While I work throughout my day dreams
I come home every so often
Channel clear and rid of maudlin
Poised to write and type my way
An understanding found
In that day
I simply MUSt do it you see..or rather read
I cannot let these words spill
Back into the cells they emerged from
I MUST write to calm the spirit
Errah-rather livin it up
In a torrent of pulsing rythyms
Unknown and fresh
Filling me from toe to breast

Em.k Dec. 31, 2007

Friday, December 28, 2007

Over Christmas



my possibly ruined yet still beautiful silk screen

Monday, December 24, 2007

*p a g e s after pages my friends

Above is one of my first ever screen prints, and my arm..not screenprinted but drawn on w/ a sharpie. I would be covered head to toe with tattoos if it weren't for sharpies and microns and ballpoints. It's a mole by the way, not a vole. On the shirt, not my arm. Actually on my arm too; if you look real close. But not the animal kind, the skin kind. I call it my heroin mole. Though I don't shoot drugs. It's just right on the vein though, I mean, I don't know if I could call it anything else. People might ask, "hey what's that, on your arm?" I'd just respond really calm like, "oh that. That's just my heroin mole"

I dislike editing as much as erasing. Which is why I use a lot of pens and markers and not so much pencils when I work. I don't like planning either. I always try to wing it first and work on impulse (especially with photography) before I will settle in with a ruler or tape or a stillness before a leap. But I just like the immediacy of it and the fact that there really are no mistakes and I have to work with what I’ve got and if I've got a bloody mess I've got to run with the bloody mess.
I've edited some of the words written on some of my sketches for personal reasons.
I feel as though I have cheated some how, but it had to be done. I guess that is why I am writing this now. I cannot stand to lie if I am aware of the truth. Doesn't mean I always tell it, the truth that is; I just get really uncomfortable with lies. Like sometimes to the point of severe physical, mental, and spiritual pains. (super duper dramatic ya'll) Like contraptions before birthing a baby..F-kin HURTS like a biatch, then the beautiful and super raw truth comes out, screaming and kicking. And its beautiful...and raw. And the truths just laying there like an unexpected and glorious guest, shiny and fresh but with a timeless and old world sort of smell permeating from its honest little pores. And you want to love and hate it at the same time.
I also wanted to mention the editing because I did not want it to be thought that I change my art via digital anything. Digital things sometimes make me feel queasy inside. I love paper and ink as much as I love my skin.

That’s all GOODNIGHT FELLOW WORLDIANS--tommorow is Christmas Eve and I have grand plans for printing!
*also look forward to a piece on holiday retail... comming soon, if my fresh batch of unsightly sarcasm doesn't wane in the next couple.

pages pages

more pages


Monday, December 17, 2007


Karma is an interesting thing. I think I believe in it when it is convenient for me. But though I half laugh at the principles of karma and those who hard core believe in it, I myself have a similar philosophy running in my life. It’s called ‘higher power loves me so much that I get to suffer from my own consequences’. And if I let someone in, in traffic, one of the reasons is so that I will be let in later. Heck yes {in monotone napoleonic voice} And I’m suddenly writing a screenplay. Just in case you didn’t know. I seem to be a bit confused with my writer sex. Am I gay am I straight? Am I bi-literal? ( which apparently is actually a word. I just looked it up. I was trying to be clever and mix the subjects of sex and literature. literapture more like{also in monotone voice}) At any second I could suddenly start writing food reviews or captions fitting for L.L. Bean catologues.
Ok so back to things that make a little more sense. sorry. no not really. One of the other reasons that I let folks in in traffic is because it's the right thing to do and doing the right things gives me relief. And I am so all about the freakin relief.

As I sat in the middle of the intersection on Monroe in Midtown. I felt the twinges of panic and fear of being the douche bag settling in upon me. I glanced at the light to which I was almost under and glanced at the light so very far in front of me. Which was one of the causes of me sitting in my douchbaggery, in the middle of the road. Because it was red. Nevermind that I could have waited before venturing into the dangerdouche zone. The light above me was still red, but probably was about to be green. “Oh fuck!” I said. Actually it was more like “Oh FOCK!” frantically I glance to my left and mouth IM SORRY to the lady in the silver voltswagon who would momentarily either be lurching towards me angrily or staying still and honking in a distressed fashion at my douchebagginess, which was blocking her passage to the roads beyond, hence causing great frustration.

So I just thesaurused ‘douchebag’ which in of itself is hilarious anyways; the whole act of looking up a synonym of a word that means ‘a device for squirting liquid into private parts’. It’s just funny. But I feel I need to share what the great’s reponse was to my search query:
I’m sorry there were no results for your search,
Did you mean:
Tote bag
Touch base
Dune buggy
let me clarify this in capslock mode (which makes it appear that I am shouting or speaking in a loud and incredulous voice....)TOTE BAG. TOUCH BASE. DUNE BUGGY. DUNE F-IN BUGGY????? Oh my God its priceless. Poor, poor, decent-minded thesaurus. It probably wears a clip on bowtie to work and chews only one piece of trident gum at a time. Cuts its meals up into small squares and triangles and eats in algebraic formulas. Frequently gets milk mustaches. Saw the girls wearing ‘Mrs. Pitt’ and ‘Mrs. Clooney’ tees and had one made to say ‘Mr. Cleaver’. How and why in the world did any of the above words occur when the word DOUCHE BAG was brought to the table? Which is pretty gross, douches being on tables and all, also bringing up the questions of how and why. WELL- I will tell you why. Because I failed to put a space in between the words douche and bag. And for all those out there who don’t know what a douche bag is (I mean really) look it up yourself. The word lavage comes up. It’s pretty awesome. Do you know what lavage means/ I didn't, I had to look that one up too.
JK! Here it is:
douche bag
a small syringe having detachable nozzles for fluid injections, used chiefly for vaginal lavage and for enemas.
The only reason I copy-pasted that (because I really do believe in doing it yourself..the f-in work that is) was to comment on the part of defination that states “used chiefly for...”
What else would a douche bag be used for? I mean really? 'Chiefly used for'.. like some cases it's used elsewheres? To water the plants? I know those hanging ones are hard to reach and all..perhaps a friendly game of sanitary water squirting between some very friendly friends? a drinking vessel for a small mammal, like a hamster, ferret, or guinea pig? What?
ok ok.
One of my worst fears is that the other cars in traffic won’t like me. Like I’ll see a poor hapless vehicle trying to make a difficult turn and I have this momentary struggle in my heart where its all like “Oh shit I could stop and do a good would be nice, I might get good karma, and they would feel eternal gratitude for me and my niceness Oh but then the car behind me might get upset, or even hit me and then I’d have to get out and have responsibility occur and adult conversation happen and insurance thingy-bobs passed and, and ..And I opt for the not, because I have now passed the car and “its too late-oh well, maybe next time!”.

Sometimes I get all queenly about letting people in, I’m all like “Ok you go.. mmmm-and you and that’s all. No NO. not you. You stay. You wait till next time.” and I am saying this all out loud in my car with matching hand movements so they too can see and understand my vehicular reign.

{More later}

Wednesday, December 12, 2007


I ran to my seat so I could relieve myself of the words and sentences crawling out of my ears and eyes….. I felt as if I would explode, similar to having to urinate really, really bad ‘cept more romantic and flowy. No pun intended. Picture a slow pan of an angelic-looking woman standing on a mountain, hair blowing softly in wind, she’s breathing in and out heavily, collar bones flashing, her billowy spirit singing to the air… mixed with a bear in heat and maybe a constipated elephant for good measure. That is how it feels to want to write “it” down. Not knowing what the “it” is until it’s written of course. (also think ‘Lord of the Rings’ when he’s about to put that damn ring on, and the air around him becomes fuzzy and soft, his reality suddenly dented and mottled, echoes of his actuality swimming about on tethered pieces of softly falling truth. Um. Um, um. ummy um!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Like that
A friend gave me a book to read recently. Actually, a series. He just went on ahead and handed me all three. Now, I was pretty excited, first off, to be receiving books from another bright minded human in the first place, however I had no idea how much of a task I was about to unwittingly be riding into. The books themselves were wonderful old. The kind of wonderful old that reminded me of my mother’s collection of old Bradbury books.
Almost immediately after he handed the books over, I buried my face inside the wispy yellowed pages of one, deeply inhaling and grinning, like a kid with stealthy plans for a nearby stack of double-stuff Oreos. I had the milk in the glass and the paper napkin folded just so… all I needed was to sit down and begin.
The creature cradled between my fingers was filled with the sweet smelling skins of intelligent thought… though I had no idea how intelligent they really were. I sat down during lunch break at work the next day and began to dive into the first of the trilogy. I had to re-read page one a couple times. Didn’t think much of it… told myself I was just warming up to this new author, I would be settled in soon enough, plus I just like to read fast. I like to do everything fast. Right? Nothing to fear. But by page three I had retreated to my car where in one hand I held an open dictionary, in the other the novel of unanticipated challenge. A Challenge I was (and still am) a bit mad at. Actually one of the only reasons I am going to persist is because of ego related reasons. I cannot bear the thought of returning these books unread. Even though I have to read them like they are f-kin Mindsweeper level 400. I don’t even remember if Mindsweeper had levels. But if it did-- it would so be level 400. Maybe even 401. When reading I felt like at any second these pages made with Bible paper from the 17th century B.C. (haha I know, I know. Whatever skim on, skim on) would possibly explode in my face; sending billions of tiny astute thought processes all over my frustrated and mannish, manhandling, man hands. And I do have some manly hands. They are huenormous. That means big. Enormous and huge got married and birthed my hands. The left one was two minutes earlier and holds it over the right to this day. Always has to have the upper glove, if ‘ya know what I mean.
So this book and me were hanging out in my van, in the parking lot of my workplace. We were slowly bonding. And by slow I mean read a sentence, stop, look up word, stop, re-read sentence, stop, digest, sigh, squint, lean closer, until my spinal column was completely bent and my nose was almost touching the pages I was so super concentrating on the task of our bonding. Fingers daintily clutching pages that very well could have been a pack of Rizlas in a former life. Sweat began to form a beady little colony on my forehead. The colony’s leader soon sending recruits out to explore the areas under my arms as well; Quickly becoming a new world order causing China to fidget nervously. So I sat, physically slouched and mentally stirring. Brain chewing the bits and pieces of tough words; the process heavy and satisfying at the same time.
These books had covers done in a satin finish, and displayed mind dilating illustrations, both eerie and beautiful. The Titles were done up with eagerly devoured typeface, sustaining my ever thirst for interesting fonts.
These books demanded in a quiet voice to be plucked delicately like a harp. At least how I imagine a harp to be plucked, which is deftly but softly. To be eaten slowly like an exotic dessert. These books had the golden warm pages resembling what I would imagine the souls of autumn leaves would look like. Pages smelling sweetly of memories and wearing the weathered faces of time.

To quote a friend;
But if it takes any effort, (whatever the it is) it’s so worth it.

{More later}


CLICK to enlarge the grOoviness...

*a poem

I am a worm of God
inside the cocoon of creation
Be a butterfly when I die
The powdered wings leaving dust upon
the life I lead inside
Fingerprints of my existence shed
for those after me to ride
I am a worm of God today
and I am scared to die.



printmaking: embossed postcard

8:00 Evening Group


spraypainted postcard w. paint markered hand

page one of newest book (REALLY rad-CLICK IT!)


Thursday, December 6, 2007

Sunday, December 2, 2007

*A New Kind Of Chime

As I sit here cradling my peppermint fatty ice cream that cost $5.19 from the 24 hour Kroger where the self check-out computer took my quarter; I wonder If this is going to be a really shitty first draft. I knew it made a strange clink when it was ingested by the bowels of the beast; my quarter that is, not the possible shitty first draft. I even tapped the little silver doggy door leading to the cubical of coin-return-purgatory just to check for my clink-sick coin. No quarter. Shook it off as paranoia and un-rumpled my five one-dollar bills and slowly started feeding them into the mouth of the monster. I mused about how it would have been easier to just have gone to the real check out lane where (sigh) human interaction would have had to have taken place when suddenly the demon’s screen portrayed in red a .19 still left due. I blinked as I often do when my eyes need moistening and turned to the register shepherd to solve this injustice. I told her I had given it a quarter. “What? How much?” she said in an unknown and un-amused accent. And I explained again that her little lamb had eaten my silver coin and that I did not in fact owe it a .19 in red. After banging her palm on the not so wooly panels of the evil device that stole my monies, she swiftly returned to her podium and made some movements in her own demon box out which came my proper change.
And walked away. Still un-amused and foreign.
I said thank you many times and wondered if she believed me. I meant to ask her what language she had spoken when she had been chatting with her co-workers while I had been drooling over my fatty peppermint icecream purchase. But as I left I found myself being gracious to the back of her head and the wrong employees caught my thankyouthankyou throw-ups. Throw-ups as in barf, not tags. Which I also saw a good deal of tonight in East Atlanta. Tags not barf.
I walked out the sliding doors and immediately stretched to hear the sound that had captured my eardrums on the way in…the sound of chimes, and not the tinkling fairy shimmysparkle chimes, but a new kind. It came from the rafters of the half constructed office buildings across the way. It sounded thick and far away. It was heavy and metallic. Almost Aisian and ominous, but beautiful and seductive too. Like something that the half-fish/half-man character from the movie Waterworld would have dredged up from the sea or had hanging around his raft.
I couldn't tell where it was coming from or what was making the lovely noise, all I could do was stare up into the unfinished mess and smile. The sound may of hailed from the towering cranes that hovered ace high above the skeletal sky rises. One of which was festively glowing red and green. Which made me stop and think who decided that? Who’s job was that to do? Did they carefully calculate how many days after Thanksgiving until it would be socially acceptable to put up the Christmas lights or did they just string ‘em up on a cheerful, elfish whim? Who does that sort of thing to such a sturdy scary piece of hulking machinery that is so strong it can take out entire buildings? BIG cement and steel wire structures? I love it; absolutely love it. It made me smile to see such a brute of a thing twinkling in the distance. And the wind chimes or whatever they were, I loved too. I loved that they called to my creative inner workings and enticed me to turn to a complete stranger in the middle of the parking lot and ask if he heard them too. Who, not less than a minute earlier I had been suspicious of stealing. Because of his giant backback. Because everyone with a backpack (and especially if its giant) must be stealing (insert rolling of eyes). It’s a spotitgotit sort of special situation. BUT-stealing stranger in the night or not; in that moment, when the construction chimes were chiming, and the wind before the storm was winding, and the leaves were dancing in secret patterns…I was full.
And life was beautiful.

And also, just in case you needed to know this, apparently most problems can be solved with the use of a hyphen. In writing that is, not life. But hey, maybe it works in life too. We should all try it! Insert hyphens freely people! SEE WHAT HAPPENS! Who knows? No squiggly green lines for us!