working on this 4 x 8 foot space painting. My next 4 x 8 will be more artistic, I hope.
For people like me and you, visual imagery
can change our worlds. Meditation relieves
stress and silences the chattering in our brains,
by emptying the remains of harmful thoughts.
Our subconscious removes barriers and the truth
is, we experience self-hypnosis when zoning out
by altering our brain wave states through hypnosis
and meditation that reach the same place by an alpha state
that opens the road to our unconscious minds where
unwanted behaviors can be changed. To get over love
or hate that we carry as freight, all we need to do is alter
our perceptions of things we can’t seem to control.
If we believe, we can leave our bodies behind and say farewell
and dwell in another world or place while forgetting pains and
addictions life has bestowed upon our fragile bodies that are only
avatars for our conscious minds.
Using bodies for pleasure is out of date and soon only spiritual minds
of all kinds will inhabit the universe and hurting and injuring others will
cease to exist on everybody’s list, because our minds will only have words
and thoughts to prove, even if we can’t move, that we’re alive.
At a UFO convention in Las Vegas I couldn’t take my eyes of a rail thin girl with multi colored hair wearing a skin tight Star Trek uniform that outlined her curves as Jeri Ryan’s costume in Voyager did hers.
The girl I eyeballed was smoking hot too, as my friends used to say about Ryan. I shuffled over to her on my size 18 web footed snow shoes I purchased to leave Bigfoot tracks in the snow, but wore now with my one piece alien costume that covered me from head to toe
in green and purple splotched latex that represented an alien from a snow covered planet.
“Are you from Earth?” I asked.
She gazed at me with her purple irises that spun and changed color every two seconds. Never knew they made contact lenses able to spin.
She smiled and filed down teeth showed. Must be fake, but they sure seemed real. Then her calming voice washed over me like an ocean wave that washed away my fears of rejection and opened a world of possibilities. Her sharpened teeth became a thing of beauty to me. I wanted her to bite my tongue. I put a hand to her waist and flew against the wall.
She smiled again and said, “You can look, but never touch.”
“Damn girl, are you electrified?” I looked for a battery pack, but nothing could be concealed under the clothes she wore. Her hair, it must be hidden there. I raised my drink as to make a toast and dumped it onto her head. Sparks flew. I knew I must have figured right when her face began to melt and metal shone through.
The Jeri Ryan look alike pointed a metal finger at me, grabbed me with her vice-like-hand, and hung me out of the window on the 25th floor. I kicked and screamed and tried to return inside, but she laughed a sweet robotic sound and said, “Never, never make a robot mad.”
“How can a robot be as beautiful as you?” I said.
Her sharpened teeth took a bite of the glass she held in one hand. I heard it crunching as she chewed it and then spit out a fine spray that cut through my latex costume and into my skin. I felt the metal fingers holding me losing their grip, so I tried to reach safety by swimming through the air. During my struggle the pieces of glass she had blown on me began to cut into my skin and blood showed.
“Look,” she said in a voice that came out robotic. She yanked me inside and shook me until blood flew like drops of water from a wet dog “I’ve found a human,” the changing voice said.
The convention goers surrounded me in a circle when she dropped me to the floor.
“I want to operate to see what makes it tick.” Came from one armpit of an alien who had six. “No fool,” came from another, “Have sex with it to see if it can conceive hybrid beings like us.”
A snakelike alien with two heads said, “Be careful, where there’s one, there’s a thousand.”
Fear lit all the aliens’ eyes because it was right. I blew the Boy-Scout whistle I wore around my neck and the Disintegrating Swat team burst through the doors and windows with lasers blasting and soon only puddles of gore covered the dance floor.
I quit after that because all that was left of my dream was a puddle of gore and I’d never know how it would have been to have sex with Jeri Ryan, even if she was a robot look-alike.
Never seen before in the stormy clusters
of the light of day, my paintings mirror the
dark of night and never show any snowy white
light in my world where dark generates passion
and fear. My wife opened the door and saw there
was no light and only night. “Stop painting and put
on your clothes,” she said, “why do you think we
She shone a flashlight in my face and saw it was
acid washed, her scream it seemed woke the dead
and zombies came knocking on my door looking for
some flesh to eat.
Living or dead, they raised a stink that couldn’t be
washed out in my sink. My neighbors came to complain
but became hunks of meat hanging from a rack, and they
were a tasty snack for the walking dead.
I stepped into the dark after they did that in my house. I
wasn’t scared as a mouse, but they never left and I didn’t
have a chance to paint with stinking dead stumbling around
until I painted their drooling faces.
I never understood why paintings I made of zombies were in
such demand by old men who wanted to become like them.
To live after death and eat flesh again. So when night came I
always painted in the dark to become like them through my Art.
Going Down the Wrong Road
“Make a left instead of a right,’ I said in the
dawn’s early light to my chagrin, because
left was wrong and right was right.
“The moon’s up above, so it must be ahead,”
I said, “I’ve got a feeling in my gut making me
wonder and wanting to see what the map says.”
Sure enough the map lied and said, Beaver Creek
was straight ahead, but, “Wrong way, wrong way,”
like magic the voice on the cell phone said to the
driver who looked at me with burning eyes..
“There ain’t nothing shaking because of forsaking
a right turn for a left. If we hadn’t made a mistake
the beautiful carved rocks we’re looking at may as
well be stored in a box.”
That made it all right, and she didn’t want to fight, I
thought, until she put the gas pedal to the floor in a hurry
to get to the shore. I cried in shame for calling her by the
wrong name and for taking her so far out of the way.
My Dad had a bad day and died. He believed
in God, so I prayed because he obeyed his
faith that he’d find his reward in heaven, if
there was such a place.
He got no compensation nor answers for his
prayers or good deeds since birth, while serving
his time on Earth.
Showered with evil tribulations in the image of his
wife and kids who treated him like an indentured
servant sent from above to take care of them.
Looking down, he must have squirmed when my Mom
chose his successor to ease her pain. An Indian Man
from Canada who slurred when he spoke because he
drank too much.
“Better than shit on a stick,” she’d say when asked
why she made such a choice. I never tried to see
beyond his exterior to see what made him a man.
He too died and left my mother alone. I helped remove
his belongings and found his manuscripts written in
script that any calligrapher would aspire to.
Not knowing that death waited at his door, he wrote
the language of his tribe that had never been put on
paper before in explanatory language so clear even
I understood it.
Was this a gift from above in the name of love, showing
me what I see and perceive isn’t what’s really there, and
to never simply rely on what I see and to look inside
for the capsule of the mind that I always left behind?