AdPock

When I was like 10 or so, my mom opened a Southwestern Art gallery in Cherry Creek, an up and coming suburb of late '80s Denver. I like to kid with my mother, who doesn't really appreciate it, that as soon as she opened the gallery, that's when I stopped getting parented.  The truth is probably closer to Mom just being ready to do something big, having parented the shit out of two boys to the point where they could be trusted to be alone... though perhaps she shouldn't have trusted us with HBO.  Regardless, freedom was a boon for me, and it turned out my older brother and I could take care of ourselves. But while Mom frequently let us stay at home to explore the wide world of Huntington Estates, she did make us hang out at her gallery, Canyon Road, quite a bit, too — which is where arguably some of her longest lasting parenting lessons took root. But at first, that's exactly what it felt like: being made to do something. That probably stems from th...

My life as an artist, and as a human I suppose, has been to overthink. In an effort to not overthink the pretty pictures I've been making for the last few years whilst putting off writing, I'm going to attempt to not feel so burdened trying to add words to all my posts here. At least not today. So, here's some of the images I've been creating in lieu of using my actual words. I know a true writer worth his salt would have had a field day during the Trump years, but I've found myself wanting to say less and less, perhaps because of how much stale prattle has filled the air. Or maybe this is just my way of not overthinking it.

Something’s missing from my beach today. The salt still tempts my nostrils, yes. Same as yesterday. The sand still stays my feet in coarse irritation. The waves perform their tragedy, singing their dying arias, giving rise to great crescendos, only to succumb to the seashore forever. The tragedy played yesterday, it doesn’t stop today. Repeat and coda, on and on. The seabirds run their usual races, taunting the lurking waves in their dash for beached plankton. The sailboats still sail. The joggers still jog. The trash still collects. The smokestacks still spew their poison to the heavens. The heavens, its the heavens. So resplendent today, much more than usual. So gleaming and free and expansive. Undisturbed. The clouds seem lighter, more airy, with room to grow, no ceiling to reach. The birds unfettered, more space to roam, no limits, no obstacles.  The planes. Where are they? What’s my beach — the closest to the airport — without the constant clamor of t...

I've had a thing for flamingos and palm trees since well before the two beach icons teamed up as thememates for my Bar Mitzvah, back in the late '80s. But they became a far more important part of my truth after Mom went all out bringing this blossoming Jew man's Miami Vice inspired dreams to life on the "Mony Mony" fueled dance floor of Bobby McGee's — my favorite restaurant at the time, due in equal parts to the perfectly pink prime rib and the fact that the waiters dressed up in costume. (Trust me when I tell you there's absolutely nothing like having a side of beef brought to you by Rocky himself!) The cardboard flamingos and palm trees that turned Bobby McGee's into a pastelled wonderland would go on to serve as my own room's decorations well past the sordid event of becoming a man — though the decor was demonstrably lessened when I accidentally knocked a basketball into the neon-pink "Adam" sign that my mom had made to real...

Once upon a time there was a boy who sang as if God we're his ventriloquist. But along the open road, the boy lost his heavenly voice, he couldn't even be sure where.  One day, the boy found a dog who barked like a hurricane, like the Scorpions kind of hurricane. The rocking kind. So the boy took the dog in. Unfortunately, the boy was homeless.  The boy and the dog hit the street, the only home that would have them. But it bonded them tighter than any roof could, and they made themselves a home without walls.  Though both had been self-described lone wolves before, now, neither could see the logic in that.  They were a pack now, forever. Though the boy's divine voice still escaped him, he felt the air in his lungs getting stronger with each pack-spent day. Until one day, out of the heavenly blue, it was as if God, the puppet master of fate, reached out once again and put his hand up the boy's butt. And the spirit so powerfully moved the ...

Monogamy worked for Sue and Lee, They didn't promise it would always be, But with weather being so darn cold lately, It just made sense to snuggle, freely or not. 

Once upon a time,  There was a gorilla named Kong, As big,  And strong, And long, As the lingering note of a well struck gong. Still, Kong was forced to leave his home, By the rarest royal of all, man. Bound, literally, for a new land, Pushed until they forced his hand, To make him something far more grand... A king.

Jean-Luc Giraffe made a helluva gaffe,  Way back when,  When he wrecked his whole life. Why couldn't he have just been happy for Geoffrey? Why couldn't he have just shaken his brother's hoof, Said, "Nice job!  Way to make kids happy!" He was the alpha.  The pride of the family. But it didn't matter. Did it really matter now? A giraffe has to save his own neck. But whoa to be part of  the tower, Basking in the cool shade of Acacia, The irreplaceable warmth of family.

What a heavy weight this world might seem if seen from down below where loud obnoxious air depletes the sublime brevity of breath. Are you loved? Are you hungry? Are you home? A weight impossible to haul. Let it go unbound it so. Unfettered by such chains let thine load be laughed upon from on high. A knowing wink may meet your eye, take solace take flight!

Hope is born of what may never exist, Deluding till the end. Why bother with the way things are, When you can make believe belief? Not a crack above of rolling thunder, No need for the shelter of truth, Clouds may part before or after, May as well enjoy the view.