Month: March 2015


eager and timely from years of
corner shopping
electrical-charged motor mouth
hanging off arm of sluggish spouse
which vice could it be?

heroin, coke
a bitter toke

blossoming in her belly
another full-rich babe
lets hope this one can at least count to three


Inspiration (With A Gun To It’s Head)


“Visual art and writing don’t exist on an aesthetic hierarchy that positions one above the other, because each is capable of things the other can’t do at all. Sometimes one picture is equal to 30 pages of discourse, just as there are things images are completely incapable of communicating.”

-William S. Burroughs

There is a delicate crane dance to self-expression, language, and the visual intercourse artists will spend days, sometimes even their whole life, trying to capture. There is no guide book to inspiration. You just do. And the quicker you learn to kick the rear-end of your brain cells into action then the quicker you will catch up with inspiration, without wasting your afternoon on the corner for the bus to come. There is no art school, no after school program, no thousand-dollar scholarship that can teach you this. It is an exhausting, often mentally stabbing uphill climb. It is not romantic. The amount of self-pity one will put into themselves is as disgusting as pubic hair in your salad, or a centipede laying eggs inside your pillowcase.

Separating writing and visual expression is a blessing, and at times feels like nothing more than a cruel, cruel Grecian God curse. But in my small, timid, fairly inexperienced experience, one trial of error does alleviate the other.

There will always be certain moments I can articulate better in one media more than the other, whether in stuffy text or an obscure line doodling on the back of a restaurant receipt, but rarely are the scales ever balanced. One medium will never trump the other — In fact, the more I express my many fanciful dream sequences in a vomitorium of verbal sewage the more visual I become, and the more I train my eye in color theory then the better I am when needing to articulate it in the next scene. Everyday I become more of a director than a writer. An architect rather than a painter. One talent may come natural but the other will cause me to spend the rest of my life trying to outwit the other; a point which I hope will never come, because to be honest, I don’t think one could bare to live without the other.


back off, unsung hero
take this beaten ego to your grave
no one likes a winner
when you’re fighting for dust instead of a name

run down for a night cap
run fast far out of this cold, cold town
of a million shrilling voices
bellowing fire at the whore on the bound

and dust will always scold us
about the good times and the bad
boiling in the midnight sun
as greedy vultures guide us back

A Quick Dig In The Paint Bin

March is here! And no one fucking cares.

Anyway – Here is a look at some artwork I’ve been accumulating these past few days since I took an unplanned two-month hiatus on anything involving ink bottles and repetitive cross-hatching. Alas, I am back at work (digitally, this time), but my drive still feels overheated so most of the stuff I make is staying in the garage for work.

Related (see below): ‘Northern Exposure’ just invaded the list of one of my top favorite television shows, and if you have not seen it before, fix that. Seriously. Like, go out and buy it. Steal it. Whore for it, because it has some of the best television writing I have ever seen and it’s been like an old, crotchety yet humble professor to me in my recent adventuring in screenwriting. You won’t regret it.


Last picture can be purchased here:

This year is starting out just fine, and now that a few traveling plans are in the works I feel very determined about everything else in my life. I even hemmed a shirt the other day, and believe me, that’s progress even Congress would applaud.

Stayin’ alive (so help me God),