Six different metallics,

silver, cobalt, copper hue –

piss jars of ethylene art sense –

viper blue, canary yellow, paliochrome orange –

aromatic flayed hood pattern scrambler


Colors communicate with

mathematical precision,

a matrix model of emotive

stultification varied; the whole

invaded by the determinant;

Constipated sinus

roto-rooter chemical, a hazard –

nerve damage – huffer system

Blown away . . . nerve damage?


Multiple layers of subtlety,

a cosmic dance in art space;

courage expressed in crazy leaps

of tonal subset  to cofactor noise – music –

defined by colored multiples, splashes, drips, runs,

and intricately celebrated strokes

of loving tenderness . . .

A logical tautology semantically woven

without regard for syntax.


Stultification not stultification becomes raw awareness . . .

by logical default.


I have a dream to see,

a hall, sculptural transcendence hewn

from young mountain flesh energy

cry rippling . . .

with integrity.


To whom do we owe gratitude?


In the end it gets easier but

Sub-self dynamics tells a limited tale.

There are the Others; one mustn’t

neglect the Others. The Others belong

to Self not self if a difference can be shown, maybe . . .

another self-supporting tautology

granted for the sake of mercy.


It’s all sublimated message from Outer to Inner;

experience justifies the  lazy lie.

Masochism, schmasochism . . . I

cut for blood sport self-induced deliverance

for the Love of the Other;

the Universal Feminine aspect of Others

sub-divided categorically in true Matrix



Telepathically words are impotent Eunuchs,

fat, whimpering, bloated, and useless in

straight connectivity psychic pressure –

the message interspecies –

and hounds cry . . .


I howl at the Moon like all other

cult members; Pagan Mother-worship

demonstrations ecstatic of secret communities.

Some secrets shall remain . . .

St. Stephen style.


Enlightenment is not for

faint of heart nor is artistic

endeavor. I have entities in my

head, a maelstrom of contradiction so I




but celibate I remain!


For certain they don’t belong

but I entertain with

wrath a deliverance . . .


I will not be held up by a goddamn dog!

Did I mention eggshell blue?


Baby food jars? I eat the food not the paint.

Butternut squash and infant formula

keep artists regular, on schedule;

robotic like encapsulated schematics

of internal wiring gone awry – a bird nest grounded

in love; Freud wouldn’t understand.


I work in the gutter but one can’t spell

gutter without gut. Bukowski knew:


“It takes endurance to be a drunk.”

In the end most all succumb to peace

postal style like circular horses in

latitudes of death screaming and swimming

against insurmountable mediocrity, a small taste of madness:



You live in a car parked on random streets for ten years and then call me a sellout.


Gibby Gabby, too much acid mixed with

philosophia punk rock Texas bourbon

style leads to nihilistic visions of suicide magic

beatnik dreams. Only the myths save the day.


In the end Oedipus is blinded by fate;

a certain testament to the presence of the Universal Other.


The fates lead those who will; those who won’t they drag.


Magenta? Magenta says so much with cadmium, medium hue,

I scream and cry and lick

pus filled scabbed over innards of

dumpsters just to remind the

craziest . . . I am crazier.


I eat trash because I’ve grown

accustomed to liking

daydream fever


And this is reflected in rambling colors of

fumigated piss jar joviality.


Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.


—Wes Hansen