Random photos: alot of experimenting with 3D butterflies at the art table. There was a baby rose bush on the side of the road with a sign that said "free rose bush" so we took it home and I re-potted him in a big can & Ryan put him into the sunshine. Ryan's poetry against our wall of flowers, framed and for sale on the etsy shop!
More clearly I can see his silouette, watercolor-ink torso with it's dangerously protruding ribcage, bones beach-bleached from his time here in the city of angels (soul, too, erroding from storms of desert sand that wear the faces of friends and lovers who've failed him), his fraility something real. There is the rise and fall of his breathing body, highlighted by the moon that hangs overhead (somewhere far away) and it is metaphorical enough, the idea of him awash in what is distant, as if those far-away lands and far-away people are all he can feel with his poet's blind eye closed to the present. The skin between each rib is shadowed like a trench in some great war around his heart, his skeleton-stretched skin illustrated with words and pictures that don't wash off ; what makes the man.
My ghosts pass through, untethered, only occasionally. His hang loftily, idealized, dripping red velvet ink in epics penned on parchment ; they stretch their gaunt limbs along the back of chairs with feral grins, participating together in a famished symbiosis, like a witches circle of the damned, dilirious and never satisfied and naked in the night. Conjured up from memory they drag themselves from under the furniture and out of the cracks with black-tipped fingers and contorted limbs and sea-soaked hair, writhe at our feet as we look at one another in empty rooms, lovely fawn with breath like brimstone and flipbook-style, segmented movements of laughter from times before. They lean in with goldleaf-crusted dead lips to whisper against his unshaven face - you can even sympathize with their enchantments if you watch them in his waning candlelight, forever animated like ghastly corpses brought back to life by selfish lovers, frame to gilded gold frame, in his thoughts.
(collected from my writings)