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essay: #089: Graffiti Surf

Surf rolls in.
Across burnished skins.
Graffiti Kyoto Sunset.
Scrawled across our skies.
Beautiful, just like this....


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essay: #088: on discovery channel

Summer Breeze

Sultry breeze.
Summer's here.
Tom Waits.
Digital love.

To this.

True happiness is only ever shared...

and happy surfing
on Discovery Channel!

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essay: #087: Ivory Towers

Architecture of Happiness

"Tell me a story," he says.
As the sun does rise.
So I pick up my camera.
Through deserted Metropolis.
Of cathedrals of glass.
And Ivory Towers for Galilleo.

"Life's an essay," I say.
Suffused with the random.

Summer approaches.
And fog subsides.
From San Fran.
To hemisphere's Southern.
As time ticks by....

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essay: #086: Transmission


Stark and eloquent.
Voices of the past.
Distant echoes.
Of the unfulfilled.

"Always danger.
Endless talking.
Life rebuilding.
Don't walk away."

Of Curtis and Corbijn.
And ghosts of Manchester past.
For just a second....

# #


essay: #085: everything is illuminated

Titanium Sunset
c.guggenheim bilbao

Icarus flew too close to the sun.
While Salinger colored it, shades of rye.
Eco-systems, both great and small.
Ruptured in the blink of an eye.

Gehry imagined titanium gills.
And Frida, a car crash of vibrant red.
Basquiat, graffiti for the soul.
And I, charcoals bled.

Infinite possibility.
Everything is illuminated.
For our viewing pleasure.

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essay: #084 Stories from the Sea


Smudges of Venice.
Across my heart.
Arctic ice melt opens Northwest passage.:
While the albatross slides towards extinction.
A voice crackles long distance.
Night turns to day...
Metropolis of sensory overload.
That is he.

Enough said.

# transmission ends #


essay: #083: Olympus Moon


Step through the rabbit hole.
Onto the other side.

See flames lick.

The winged statues.

Of ancient Olympia.

Doomsday vaults.

Taking shape.

Svalbard archipelagos.
To preserve.

4.5 million batches of seeds.

A biodiversity bank.

For our very survival.

“So, dear future….”

Whispers someone close.

Orbits my sky.
And blood, red moon.
Halos, all round.
My wings of desire.

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essay: #082: Satellite Sky

blue bar

My editor says:

"Spin me a tale, bout the Wild Wild west."

I oblige.
Grey skies on swollen horizons.

Hurricanes upon my lips.

Solar systems.
Within his eyes.

Circa, 2007...

“I smiled and smiled, I smiled until my face hurt, but when my face did hurt I was sure he could tell. Everytime I forced myself to smile, he clearly knew that I didn’t feel like smiling, because he never smiled back. He hadn’t seen many smiles in his lifetime but he had seen yours, enough to recognize in comparison there was something wrong with Mother’s. It curled up falsely; it evaporated with revelatory rapidity when I turned from his crib. Is that where Kevin got it? In prison, that marionette smile, as if pulled up by strings.”

We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver.

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essay: #081: Motes across Metropolis

Hopelessly adrift.
And without anchor.

Bridges collapse.
As love, does too.
Yes, there's always that.

This architecture.

Designed to capture sunset's rays.
Motes across metropolis.
Catchers in the Rye.
1001 tales.
Of the city.

Pollock and Warhol.
Obscurity and notoriety.
Side by side.
Strange bedfellows for crayon drawings.
Stretched like skin.
Across gallery walls.

I taste air.
I taste sea.
I taste him.
On the tip.
Of my tongue.

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essay: #080: jesus built my hotrod

ok, computer

First they lowered the flags.
For a rail disaster.
And then.
Came the floods.
Jesus built my hotrod.
God bless him.

Co-ordinated attacks.

In heart of London.

Scotland, too.
One disabled.
Another, not so lucky.

Headlines, next day.
Gas canisters, petrol and nails:
“A lethal combination...”
A new Prime Minister takes office.
As Blair sets sail.
Into the
sunset of global peacekeeping.

Digital love.
Becomes my avatar.

Broadcast Adventures.
Of loved ones.
Near and far.

Breathless, again.
Carpe diem.
Sweet, sweet humanity.

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essay: #079: Franks Wild Years

Tom Waits

Numbers fascinate.
As does the relativity.
Of a windowless world.
A safe.
The click of hard, cold cash.
So early, in the morning.

Of love.
And its multiplicity.
Of currency.
Great and small.

Gaza strip takeover.
High tide.
At home.
And abroad.

Fog clings.
For days.

Tom Waits keeps me warm.
I see arteries to my momma's heart.
The devil on a Greyhound bus.
And a man afraid of his shadow...

# #

A patient lies in a hospital bed.
A stranger,in white.
The doctor, approaches:
“Sir, goods news, we're moving you to your own room."
“Fantastic,” says the patient.

Two days later.
Radioactive man.
And atomic particle.
A bleached shadow.
In quarantine...

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essay: #078: Crash

Losing my religion.
Is what I do.

Immersed in this car-crash life.
From verdant to Molotov.
And Kyoto blue.
Wired to a world.
Of YouTube sounds.


And midnight hours.
With a friend.
Or two...

Borsch, Martini & Tears

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essay: #077: Chasing Volcanoes

Phil Spector makes his debut on MySpace.
Activists build replica of Noah's Ark .
On Mount Ararat.
Scientists argue.
Populations panic.
And all I can do.
Is chase volcanoes.
High in the sky...

Jagged Edges

<span class=

Thermal wonderland.
In God's Country.
Of Sulpher Sunrise.

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essay: #076: Sirens

Fire, Raglan

Maori stone statues.
Iridescent sometimes.
Guardians of fire and wind.
And of volcanic isles.
From Raglan to Rotorua.
Duck hunting season's on...

Such beautiful land.
Carved by the elements.
And by history.
Air raid sirens of Te Awamutu.
Wails deep in the night.
As does, the ticking of time.

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essay: #075: cherry blossoms in autumn

A friend, adored.
Designs calligraphy for my spine.
While another says:
"I dream of you, at night..."

cherry blossom in autumn

Cherry blossoms in autumn.
And 4-million-year-old whale skeletons.
Excavated in Tuscany.
Tsunamis, meanwhile.
Washes away.

What was once.
Is now no longer.
And liberation.
Beautifully complete.
Makes me soar.
And smile.
As another branch extends.
Into the wide open vista.
Of the unknown...

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essay: #074: three colours cobalt

If emotions were a landscape.
They'd be the jagged backbone.
Of this mystical land.

land of the long white cloud

They'd be...
The cobalt blue.
Of North and South islands.

Tattooed vines across my spine.
An ipod, to soundtrack by.
The Strokes.
"Life seems unreal..."
And it is.
For the uninitiated…

Three colours cobalt of an accidental tourist.

To kin, long missed.
And gifts, not expected.
To silvery skies to surf.
And geothermal lands to explore.
the fucking craziness of it all ...

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essay: #073: architecture of happiness


The architecture of happiness.

Such a beautiful decree.
Says once you find the missing piece.
Grab hold tight.
Never let go….

The architecture of life.
Says the spark will burn.
Sometimes, more brightly.
What do we know?
What do we desire?

Restless as the albatross.
Circling the seven seas.
Adoring, this world.
For its love.
And its hate.

The architecture of now.
A fabric, sewn of this.

“She was made after the time of ribs and mud. By papal decree there was to be no
more people born of the ground or from the marrow of bones. She was first to be created: cardboard legs, cellophane appendix, and paper breasts. Created not from the ribs of man but from paper scraps.”

And sometime, later…

“She stepped over her creator, spreading his blood across the polished floor, and then walked out of the factory and into the storm. The print of her arms smeared; her soaked feet tattered as they scrapped against wet pavement and turned her toes to pulp.” People of Paper, Salvador Plascencia

“It’s about the beauty of it all.”
Whispers someone close.
Someone loved.
Yes, expression.
Ability to imagine.
So many, many possibilities...

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essay: #072: sweet miles

summer sketches

Sometimes, things touch you.
Move you, beyond power of words.
Children in the fading light, of a sunset.
To the warm nectar, of Miles.
So warm, so wrap me in the sun.
So Sketches of Spain...

To friends, who will be missed.
And the warmth of their arms,around me.
In this ever-changing world, we adore...


Sketches of summer global warming.
Adios, and sayonara...


essay: #071: Radiance


Watching summer storm, blow in.
Winds sultry and hot.
On destiny's horizon.

Think of snow,in Malibu.
And Doomsday Clock slipped forward.

Think of Babel and its multiple tongues.
The horror, the beauty.
Time has legs and marches on.
Can we ever be.
But a footprint, in the sand?

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