Just imagine a Kiku. Now imagine a sky of Kikus.
Yesterday, I helped my best friend Kathy shop for dinner. She is probably the best chef I have ever experienced and, she makes it harmonious and fun.
While she was cooking and her husband puttering, I went after the asparagus with creative intentions. Later and at home, I added my own ingredients. Damn, fruit is fun and vegetables make for mean, sculpted line work.
Last, I have not touched anything but Dr. Ph. Martin watercolors. Once a troubled step-child in my arsenal, they are now my primary medium of choice.
Yeah I am gonna like this one because it’s full of beat and rhythm no matter how or why – as the man said to me earlier today “there are plenty downtown, go there” and wondered what he meant and how he meant it. No difference to me since I hear too many pieces of counsel and advice known as friendly and natured – but find them intrusive all the same. Last week was a little bird who said – ”you want to know what I think” – not really – but I can get around to a small discussion once they have my brand back.
So I am driving and working myself to a hotter point of expressive twitches and feel the fingertips of a stranger pull me back – my shirt is stained from wiping my mouth and sweat still clings from walking my two or three depending on how I count – which way the map is headed. It’s stranger than dreams, you know the street scene this year, this summer of heat – the women cling to sidewalks and melt in blinks of the eye. I was a very lucky to notice not being very occupied – with eyes on the road, reading signs for sale and sold or rent.
In the mirror a friend of mine is a face of all things French and all foods that make the mouth sigh heavy. There always is food for memory and drink of the street – so stains cling – I don’t care. They are scars of memories – experiences and little beats – the heart, the heart – fusion reaction, no? This is the rhythm today – winds tear the beads of sweat – dripping stains on pavement. Sweet beats of prey who watch from windows at the corners of mouths that eat and cough – bits of paper napkins – late night people with hands-down belts who watch the road and the killers.
The people who beat to death, a funny way of expressing love, huh? Somewhere in this night which crushes all expectation – sometime in this evening which beats down, beats down – I find the little coin that has a flip-sided tails and gives good heads. It shines and twinkles of storied mythologies, famous foot in mouth for bold and lousy truth-telling – stories that match the hyperactive hawks that circle, circle and circle.
I dive under and swim the beat, pulse the rhythms of famous tidbits – the dreams, the expected demise of promised honey, this land of which we speak – so often – so mute.
2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015
Make me blue, give me wings,
make the house jive coffee, make it simmer,
jump and trip the wires – let it rip my cords.
No sense like the present, no purposeful feel and
certainly no spring uptown or down low.
A little more belt, tightened around my waist,
slipping down, way down.
Give me a zap, a current – sizzled fat or
bone to dirt – I’ll take them both.
A little less bible – give me a belt. Give me
black, give me toes with straight-up curls –
make me pant the word – help me dance the sin.
2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015
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