Sonoma Lads Inked

Check out how much better they look with ink!

Santa Barbara

What does this look like to you?

Sonoma Lads

 These pictures are cropped as the scanner could not fit the entire piece of paper. I could patch them, but hey, I'm lazy, ok?

This one up top here is a fellow who shall remain nameless. He has sun-streaked autumn hair and eyes that sparkle like a moon on fire.

I never did finish the drawing, if you can't tell. All those evergreens were taking up all my spare time! I'll never finish now.

On our right is the handsome younger brother of he who shall remain nameless. Handsome, but not so much that he'd tempt my starry gaze from the elder brother. No sir.

So that is that. Two farmer boys who have captured my imagination. Yep.

Forest girl

Dope

I am a tag fanatic. Each locale in which I've spent significant time has a slew of tags I love. I'll list a few examples for you.

San Francisco - Lurk, Falling, Paeday, Astro, Cancer Carl, 189., Aesop, Duet

Santa Barbara - Goon, rope, Lady Monster

Sonoma county - Mogly, um., irate lords

I recently moved again. This photo is my new favorite tag. It had good timing is all. I'd just been talking about how "dope" ought to take place of "cool" in slang-land, then about an hour later I found this tag.





I am aware that most people don't consider tagging an art. Generally it isn't. However, there are certainly exceptions. It depends on both the moniker and the placement. Finding "lurk" scrawled all over the avenues was meaningful to me when I was in my "lurk all over the avenues after dark" phase in San Francisco. Also, there is something magical about finding remote urban ruins scrawled all over with recognizable tags. Just means the taggers play like I play.

Contrary to what the photo hints, I am not in San Francisco.

Playing in the Woods

Untitled

Another old tidbit. A boy once thought I wrote this about him. This isn't about a boy:

Shingles.
Stockings caught on the rough squares.
A run here, a run there.

I hear you.

Rested on the crest of the shingled wave.
Sighed and smiled to those watching.
Silvery and silent, they smiled back.

I hear you.
I always hear you.

Red and heady.
We sipped delicately.
Sloshed sweetly.
Wild as the vines.

I see you.
Right through you.

A third journey, then the sand.
Dancing feet demanding their love.
The grains filled my shoes.
Overflowed.
Spilled across the floor when I kicked them off.

I feel you.
Every inch.

Lo-fi.
Hum diddy dum.
Lo-fi.
We danced. Barefoot and unapologetically.
Let me show you how hips feel about lo-fi.

Dive in.
I flow right down to the sea.

Two days gone

Found this in another folder. I know who I wrote it for, but I won't tell you:

The house is quiet now, but your presence lingers. A taste of laughter still flavors the air. Music hangs delicate as smoke where you left it; reverberations of an evening past. I feel it as these fingertips explore the frets. The soft vibrations of nylon strings meets the ghost of your melodies. They rain upon a saturated room, flooding the atmosphere with glorious sound. I mute the string and listen.

Silence fills the space again.

When I close my eyes, I feel you. Your eyes grin from across the room. Your form rests upon the crush of the cushions. I hear you. A gentle morning mist is the memory of your voice. It descends lightly among the evergreens, filling the canyons with the lyric of your thoughts. I breathe you in. You are an echo in my lungs. You rebound and recoil, then escape in a whistle. A specter present in my song.

Apparitional pupils blaze from the hollow your figure left upon the room. The light shifts and flickers. My fingers pluck lightly beneath a wistful gaze. The sound rises gracefully toward the emptiness that once held you. Tendrils of melody cling to the memory. Blending with my sighs, they dissipate into the stillness of this lonely room.

You have gone.
You are two days gone

Main Street

I found this in my draft box. It has been there since 2008. I am sure this is about Guerneville. Seems unfinished to me:

there's a street...
just an ordinary street...
broken sidewalks..
and old concrete.
In the summertime so many faces swim by
always busy, scurring 'neath the periwinkle sky
Some are strangers, most are friends
The former to the latter by the end.
The Autumn comes, but can't turn the leaves
the forests are all evergreen.
Redwood giants towering.
There's never snow, oh but the rains, how they come and go.
And that street...