Farmer’s market

Apple, Apples, Art, artist, Asparagus, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Cooking, Dinner, Dr. Ph. Martin Watercolor, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, drawing, Farmer's Market, fruit

fruit

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.

This land of which we speak

Apple, Apples, banana, Bananas, beat poetry, fruit, Fruit bowl, Limes, oranges

fruit

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

Dance the sin

Apple, Australia, color, Fruit Market, Kitchen, Sin

Make me blue, give me wings,
make the house jive coffee, make it simmer,
jump and trip the wires – let it rip my cords.

appleFlash-time purpose, pinch and feel my throat.

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