Moto mojo

1950a, 1960s, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Coffee Shot, Harley Davidson Patriot, Motorcycle Knockoff, Urban Rider

Hey, why not ride a motorcycle that looks like it was designed in the 40s. More so, put a ridiculous stereo on it, an American flag to show you are “a real American” and then strip.

Strip all common sense for your safety and the safety of your partner. After all, you ride a Japanese knockoff of some other famous brand. You know the one, the motorcycle that will soon use Europe as a more reasonable method of manufacturing. But you are one with the air and the road.

Fly on little wing, ride on.






“The times they are a-changin'”

1960s, Acrobatic chairs, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Bob Dylan - The times they are a-changin', The times they are a-changin'

Thank you Mr. Dylan. I needed your words and sentiments.

“Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway
Don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside
And it is ragin’
It’ll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin’
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’.”

Bob Dylan

After the line

1960s, Adoption, America, American Illustrator, Art, art, artist, Artist's Hands, Badass Artist, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Bondage, Cafe Sketches, cafe sketching, Caffe Classico Louisville, Coffee, coffee cup, Coffee Shop, Halloween

retouch me

… came the form, came the thrill, came the life.

Ageless marmalade skies

1960s, America, American Illustrator, Art, artist, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, drawing, John Lennon, Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, The Beatles, Vietnam War


Yesterday was John Lennon’s birthday. He would have been 75, which seems impossible because both he and The Beatles feel ageless. The scent of new releases all on vinyl, is imprinted not only throughout my life experiences, but tinctured in olfactory memory. The power of youth and growing older, would be impossible to paint without his lyrics, politics and passions.

Having been of age to be drafted, his efforts along with others, helped end the senseless war in Vietnam. He helped save me and gave anthems to march, to walk and to make love; not war.

I asked a server over coffee today, if Lennon was relevant to her. Sadly and unpredictably, the 20 something said no. I had heard of many people several years younger, who think he and The Beatles are as important today, if not more.

I hope this is true.

Lennon with partners, illustrated my youth and who I am today. He will always be Mr. Kite, Marmalade Skies and Revolution.


Self portrait

1950s, 1960s, Ashley Lily Scarlett, bluejean jackets, Self Portrait, selfie, Selfies, Sketch, Sketchbook, Sketching


I’m finally learning how to “get myself”, but wonder why it’s been so difficult. I’m not particularly scarred or too much of a pretty boy.

In fact, I am 60 and finally becoming more interesting to observe and live with.

The wrinkles are starting to really kick in, my eyes are sunken from irregular sleep and the stress from teaching has made an interesting groove. I like myself this way and think that anyone who is picture perfect needs to get some experience. The line part of this painting is particularly satisfying. There is not too much nor too little content. Implied shape is much more interesting.

Friday is a great day to go tripping.

An underwater vision of the ground

1960s, Addiction, Adoption, Allen Ginsberg, America, Art, Ashley Lily Scarlett, Australia, beat poetry, Poetry, Shame

shame copy

We were walking through
the grass singing song,
we were talking in the breeze
singing song.

We were dragging feet
along the freezing stones
and you were laying cold and
pressed as if;

to drown, a drowning,
an underwater vision of
the ground;

above – below – the walking through
is practice for the song –
of songs – in ground;

we talked our way to steaming,
heaping sounds.

We were talking ways of seeing
what’s so loud –
in clouds – in sun – in clear –
our bodies;

our mindful ways of singing
just our sound.

2011 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

Color my dreams

1960s, Addiction, death, Self Portrait, selfie, Selfies, Watercolor


Everybody rides the wave of time.
Some ride fast and others, perch slow.

All make book for the end of light, for the
ride of demise where day is left, unwritten.

Peaceful playground, my imagination, this
zoo of misfits who color my dreams and hue
my light.

Focus of clarity sees through my window
and history is made, but yet be blended; my time,
the time and my reality.

We ride the train, where merciful stories puff so slowly.
I guest with an owner, we write together, we share
the ingredients, our dreams.

Puff a wave, feel the sensation of melange
and fingers making beat to time, in me.

2012 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

Your deep as fathoms (mary janes)

1960s, Bondage, Brown Leather Shoe, Illustration, Women's Shoes

mary jane

Oh – I am listening to a memory and long shadow cast-wide nets.

I hear my collective history, my rhythmed slide-shoe beat and

Back to me, appear – and be tangible, be where I left you,
be light for tonight’s quiet and slip me, rub me;
the guided touch of your fingertips. Oh –

I can touch your trail, your deep, fathoms in shimmered,
thousand miles of current. Oh –

I hear and smell your scent. I feel your hunger for survival.
I see you coming home. Oh.

My candy girl

1960s, Addiction, Adoption, color, Flowers, Iris


Green mint breath,
with a predator’s thirst,
her hot steamed plunder,
spanked to affection;
some candy man love.

Her tom-tom palms,
such smooth pony thighs;
candy requires perfection,
ride, boy ride.

The monkey house screams,
call it a wild girl whisper,
her hot scripted words;
I believe in love.

Candy riders, where’s this going?

Going to slaughter,
touching her thighs;
riding the animal slide.

My candy girl,
little steamed fluffer,
she sweats warm venom;
I feel her love.

You’re pretty slow, if you still don’t know.

It’s called taste of the savage,
for ponys and monkeys,
a sweet attraction;
for candy boy love.

She was hired to please,
to guard, above the knee.

You got it now.

It was ‘62 and I was hot.

2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

Leviticus ’65

1950s, 1960s, Allen Ginsberg, Illustration, Jimi Hendrix, Leonard Cohen, Paris, Pen and Ink, Pen and Ink Illustration, pencil drawing, Protest, Religion, Summer of Love

1969 copy

Buzzing street lights in ‘65, while riding down broadway, I saw him raise a fist and knock on air, giving honorary mention, on a sidewalk, with licorice aromatics and things to come; a riot in mind and lost roads yet to try; I was driving down the hours, until the great eruption, the beautiful hydrogen plume, that turned my earliest stages to glass; of misunderstanding.

I chose deep coma puffs for months; hoping for a big bang difference, but saw more of the same, those political chants and the binge melody; spread my head from ear to nose, and dripped to a kneeling pose that hurt the knees; that he created.

There were buses choked with cigarettes and little fires that fumed high on revolution; I inhaled the moment, spiritual avenues of peace, ambience for a dime and phony masters of ‘68, who passed good karma as market produce, picked for it’s grace maybe taste; remembering a twisted paste, twirled around a pipe; I found his holiness smeared with rosin, powdered and heated in delicious spice.

Banging down the hours, in the hallway and on the walls, the musicians in the park, the harmonica boy and a licorice man who posed like Cleopatra, a fist pumped high, finding power far from the action, the corner vacation it had become; one year late and an intersection erupting intolerance; a fascist dialect foaming at the mouth.

It’s murder man, the sacrifice for love’s survival, the astute grew grumpy, coyly taking savage steps for attention, a smiling Buddha danced mediocrity, and the breeze cleaned the streets of licorice lice.

I pledged to mystic beasts, the iconic gods, who gave us head while swaying beads, killing rice cake hero babies, then slurped the carnage. That was the rise in ‘69, the fall of all, you young men, robed preachers; who stole the show. We worshipped your footprints, discovered nothing, but eased each in; so wild were our mouths.

The cold floating fogs in ‘71, let’s drive the dark, close our eyes, seeing cars in stars, luck was far from there, it was over. Time to surrender, the freedom, the ravished femmes, the man with junk, singing ancient song, who lived in trees, who coasted hills, whose licorice taste, his heavenly dreams; visit my nighttime history, and the years we lived.

2010 Barry Comer – visit Black Cat

Illustration – 2015