Truth is a Shapeshifter

We are always attempting to unearth truth

to dig it up from the eroded sentiments of time

expecting to get to the bottom

pushing forward in an amnesic trance

forgetting that there is no bottom to a sphere

only the other side


What we do pull from our tunneling are only mute symbols

superannuated artifacts

the original intentions lost





We look into the mirror of history

but what stares back is a dysmorphic vision

Not a clear image

from either side

an ungraspable mirage


Past and Future facing one another


each asking the other unanswerable questions

in infinite regress

a mirrored tunnel to nowhere


Do not be mistaken

truth has always been capricious

each age in turn has tried to pin it down by its center


first with the grasping of bodies in the dark

as if the truth were hidden under folds of flesh

as if it could be coaxed out of hiding by caress

called out by grunt

thrust out in orgasmic release

or pushed out in birth

(in each of these ways a small reflective facet of its form was revealed momentarily… but the mystery remained)


Then came gestures towards explanations of perceived truth









love letters

law suits

scientific studies

an endless march towards futility


More attempts to pull the shroud off

to see truth in all its naked splendor

but truth is not an obfuscated woman

(at least not always)


Truth is a ghost ship in dazzle-camo on a mercurial sea

direction obscured

course unknown

vessel empty











The Resting Eye Monument

it was the first
according to someone else's measured time
but the calendar was not marked for any annual observation

the moon was not full or empty

the stars were in alignment (as they always are)





the cardinal points were not stationary

bodies dipped in and out of pools of shattered light the cloaks were donned
the mask was on
the cages were open

and the alter/altar was set for demolition

in the crepuscular light
it happened
like spring
or love
or some other precipitous awakening
a sudden movement
that flipped the inside out
and from the peeled back layers we saw it slip

a reminder

you can make order out of chaos
for a time
but time is a circle
and order will always seek its shadow self

iScream the Body Electric

You are human in a major American city.
You are in: an apartment / a duplex / a house
built, rebuilt and remodeled sometime between 1920 and 1980
inside a room like a little white walled box
lit-up with compact fluorescents on a 60-cycle hum
via a tangle of brightly-colored hidden wires.
You are a small pixel of light
on a grid of intersecting streets & boulevards.

It is late
you cannot sleep
you are bored
there is no one to call at this hour
nowhere to go now and something you have to do early tomorrow.

You reach for a screen
you search
you see a frame within a frame
a box with moving pictures: 
a woman and a man in embrace
everything is in soft focus.

They begin taking turns removing each others clothing
first he slips off the shoulder straps of her silk dress
and it falls like liquid onto the floor at her feet
She pulls off his soft cotton t-shirt
unbuttons and unzips his jeans
he removes her underwear
and she slips off his. 
As you watch this scene your heart rate increases
you get an anticipatory response
Which you feel as a warm rush of electricity through your body. 

In this moment your perspective shifts from voyeur to participant.
You peel off each others skin
soft and smooth
a movement as easy as reptilian shedding.

Subcutaneous tissue
fat, muscle and fascia are all delicately pulled away
in gentle loving motions.
Hidden lines of color are exposed
and tenderly set aside.
As the final layer is peeled away
you see that the core of each of you consists of the same pulsating white light. 
You are relieved to discover
that this light
is in no way similar to the CFL glow you’ve been struggling to grow beneath. 


For She of the New Aeon

Time is not real.
A multitude of scientific studies have proven its non-linear
a mere construct of the brain
a singularly human way of making order out of chaos.

The past could very well be the future.
Archeological un-earthings could actually be eventualities.

Everything may be happening at once.
Parallel dimensions might be existing simultaneously. 

Or, everything has already happened
and this moment is just the information processing lag.

Either way it is almost certain that there is
No Today. 
No Tomorrow.
No Yesterday.

So, why is it that we still want someone to say
“I will love you forever?”

Step Off
the Hedonic Treadmill

Everything is vivid
but nothing is memorable.
How is it possible
to be simultaneously over and underwhelmed?

With all the remaking
Really, all we’ve done is overcomplicate everything.

We hit a crescendo sometime back, 
the well of fresh ideas has long been dry.

We have enough,
to last for a while at least,
so lets just stop
everything we’re doing.

Lets build a bonfire,
burn the effigies of scarcity and greed.
Split what’s left evenly among the masses,
grasp for hands
and seek abundant time. 


Organic Cold Pressed

Its really all too much.

This information overload.

Someday we’ll surely burst
like some sort of overripe fruit
and from the rupture we’ll bleed out
condensed and steady
streams of consciousness
that will pool
into an endless sea of clarity.

The American Center for Fiber Arts

We’re pulling at the threads
because the fringe is always dangling.

Loose ends
or lured lines
we can’t tell 

Either way we grasp and pull
but it all leads back to the same tangle.

We want the lines to be like a child's drawing of the sun
connected to a clearly delineated center
to something golden and whole.

Instead we’ve got this knotted mass. 
An amateurs unfinished knitting project.


First World Problems

I want to be resonantly empty.

A monastic lifestyle
minimalist aesthetics
clean lines
hollow like a Shamans drum. 

But I am full
Of desire
even if it is for no-thing-ness.

of some sort of warped
wishful nostalgia
for a simplicity I’ve never known.

and everywhere
there is the ambiguous everything.
Stacked up layer upon layer
simultaneously playing out the infinite.
Mirror facing mirror into the endless void. 

Every possible action and outcome stacked up to scroll through.
Within an easily broken frame.
Within a constantly updated interface.

My fingers tap out false sounds
like a fucked up metronome
keeping an erratic and pendulum-less beat.


Ancient Arts

Before the metal smiths, before all the varied alchemical endeavors, the potter alone held the occult knowledge of the transformative power of fire. Ancient potters often played dual roles as Shaman or Wise Woman, and all elements were called upon in ceramic ritual.

Raw, formless clay is pulled from the womblike interiors of our great mother earth. Water is added as the soft mass gains its form on a wheel that mimics our rotational orbit. The freshly shaped pot is set out to air dry before it is placed into the fire where its final metamorphosis occurs.

The once formless mass arises like a phoenix from the ashes as a hardened vessel, eager to contain and pour forth everything that is sacred and vital to humanity:

Water from the river

seeds for sowing

grain for storing through the winter

ceremonial offerings

the ashes of our dead






spirits for celebration

Evil Travels in Straight Lines

Across cultures and continents there is a shared belief in the importance of imperfection. African textiles incorporate intentional inconsistencies and pattern breaks as attempts to confuse potentially malignant spirits, because: 'evil travels in straight lines'. Native Americans purposefully insert wrong-colored beads into their elaborate designs in recognition of the fact that humans are inherently flawed. Quaker furniture, Japanese pottery, Persian rugs and Pioneer quilts, all bare flaws that connect them to the hands of a mortal. 

All of my work is flawed. For me, imperfection is not just an act of humility, an acknowledgement of the limits of human ability, or a deviation from the terrifying doldrums of predictability. Flaws are evidence of the flow of life. Simply put: things created in a passionate frenzy, or lovingly worked on to the point of over-handling, reflect back the energy put in.