12″x16″ Acryllic on Panel
Gouache, Water colors, and ink. A collaborative piece with my good friend and mentor Daniel Rice. Dan did the detail on the left.
Left again, Without say or pay,
Only took my tools and sanity.
Like an iron rod in a bridge,
I yanked myself out.
Cement chapter, now weaker.
Set foot on the sidewalk after,
Felt strong despite the exhausting cost.
Sober in the whiskey-fog, I continue to burn out each rat hole I find,
With no veil of guilt over my mind, it’s quite cathartic.
Hoping to settle in a bird’s nest up ahead.
Have to find a place to hide.
Trying to remember why
I burrough in the first place I try.
Among the vultures,
Scoundrels and rats now.
Though they’ve been my hosts,
They’d gladly accept my death
Inside their homes.
Only to later munch on what flesh I have left.
So I keep my eyes on the ground,
Charge with light strides,
Looking for something I thought I lost.
All the while,
With some notion of hope.
Also known as the “Cut”,
I’d fast-walk to and fro from there,
Burying my chin into my collar
As I stepped into Cut’s cobble hallway.
There was a
Stoop or two
To tuck into.
A pale paned skybridge
And a garden rooftop
Billowing green overhead.
Here I’d forget my stress,
At a slower tempo,
The Cut had a fewer
In that occasion,
A smile and sigh usually sufficed.
My exchange with folks here would always
Include a short moment of eye contact,
A glance and back at the old, red-weathered brick.
We’d nod, pause,
Then they’d step on.
Loose-toothed stones we go.
As if we understood
That we trample over
What came before us.