The Words of an Artist

I have always felt some magic about the spirits I met at the Burn afew years back.
Most of them at the time were in a Camp called EgoTrip. It had been many years since I had met a group like these spirits from San Diego. They made The Bunny and I feel so close to them.

Over the years, I find each one in the group special. Everytime I look, I see deeper and regain a good warm feeling about humanity. I have written about them and shared some of their words and images.

This morning I read some words that had been shared by an artist in this group. His name is Alex Cory Dikowski. He has been traveling in Europe and found himself in a quiet moment to write down a few words.

While asking for his permission to reprint his piece on my blog, I was reminded of myself as a young romantic poet, carrying my Smith-Corona and wearing a black beret, wandering European ancient streets in the 70’s and wrote a little on my own.

I wanted to share a thought with Alex that his words had reminded me about a scene from my past.

“During the night I had a short thought I wanted to share with you. I was in a hotel in Frankfurt in 77. I was a poet. I shared a room with 2 others. We came in drunk one night and one of the lads threw up out of a 4th floor window, right on the roof of the Hotel Owner below. He came up, kicked out the drunk Irishman. On his way out, he grabbed the poetry I had written that night.

The next day the now sober drunk showed up at breakfast and after a few minutes, he recited my poem back to the table of people gathered at our table word for word. I think it was the first time I was memorized and recited (at least in Europe!)

The words that follow are Alex’s and I thank his for the memory

One of my favorite things to do in Europe is have a drink at a bar that’s hundreds of years old and imagine all the people who’ve been there before me. Wrote a drunk poem…

This tavern breathes
with a deep and creaking breath.
She’s tired from the footsteps
of four hundred years.
Though don’t mistake her silence for shyness –
she’s waiting for you to listen.
Wash down a dram,
for only then will she whisper.
In a voice sweet and slow like honey.
Of a night long ago,
under a crying sky,
when two strangers sought shelter
but found love instead.
In each others arms they’ve turned to dust,
but their spark,
in this tavern, still remains.
A second dram summons an unsavory voice,
who’s tart breath reeks of deceit.
A gambler – no, a swindler,
wagering coins he’ll never lose.
Between his fingers he bounces a blade on the bar.
Separating fools from their drinking money.
He cheated men,
but couldn’t cheat death –
and in his lonesome turned to dust.
His tap, tap, tap still raps in the air,
the tempo of this tavern.
A third dram gently coaxes
a deep voice from behind the bar.
A friend to all, foe to none –
who’s light heart and heavy pour
helped lift the weight of a thousand heartbreaks.
Though he spoke,
he mostly listened.
And now he rests, returned to dust,
but in this tavern he still listens.
Here I drink, a dram of four.
A thirsty rambler passing through.
I’ve yet to fall to death and dust,
but when I do, I also trust,
of all my stories, final and scattered,
a part will remain inside this tavern.


All I Have To Do Is Dream – Everly Brothers

Thoughts from an old song and a quiet coffee..
To be a teenage boy
in a small town,
Early summer warm fades with the sun.
A front porch
in a small town…
and then she walks by on the sidewalk below.
A breeze, new leaves softly rustle
a whiff of perfume as she passes
and a dream…

Another day ends quietly


Another day ends quiet……ly

Another day ends quietly, everyone with their family snuggled in bed.
Rummys put at ease, hearing the gentle breathing of kin or toss of a family member long since seen.

Some will think forward to the morning as they drift,

some will toss and fret some,
but clenched hands will relax and the worry lines will fade.
Even those RummyHeads most frightened,will take some solace in the peace of sleep.

This is a time of coming together, families circle a table, smiling at a new baby or sitting blue faced and laughing in the flickering TV light.

Some Rummys look out their window tonight.
The silent hush of falling snow smooths landscape to a collage of graceful curves and arcs.
Patience Rummy eyes wait for the lights of loved ones returning late.

We grasp good wishes and thoughts tightly in our minds for the Rummys surrounding us. Some had something good happen today and know our turn will come.

A dayl comes when an old newspaper will be lifted in a dark garage and a sparkle will catch our eye as we say “how much is this?…A quarter!… I’ll take it. and then we rush to our home and cautiously chose the words that will best describe our new found treasure to the throngs of waiting wanters, fighting like King Midas pirahnas over our proud listing…
Shoes ahh new shoes.

Keep in your mind those we have come to know and whose words we love to see on our screens, that for one reason or another are not with us these days.

Pray in the way you know best to cure the failing health, to turn sadness into childish glee, to overflow their sagging coffers and reunite families separated by conflict or economy of those Rummys who can’t be with us now but on the strength of your good thoughts will return soon to our safe and warm harbour.
Beneath the palm, on a white sand beach never wanting for Rum.

Good Night every little RummyHead. Sleep tight…………….


The Bunny can’t drive

At least for awhile.

Chosen driver, I sit outside the Meeting

And watch.

They assemble each in the moment, forgiving of the past, jonesin’ for a future.

The Meeting is about to begin. Funny I realized they remain strangers to each other at the Meeting, but remember inside with the grinning devil buried deep in a crevice of just how it felt.

And with every past loss, the devil’s grin grews. With every numbing swallow or puncture needle stab, more lost like chips on a sculptor’s floor, littered shards of stone marble until only a devil smile is left to reveal

and they face a real choice.

Live in pain release and freedom and die or head to the silence and the Moment of the meeting.

Addicts are so in touch.

Narcissistic, no thought of bugs (unless they were junkies)

Self-possessed, trying to calm and make sense of senseless.

But they still glow flashed electric.

Sparking hot flash fire then cold ash

Repeat until dead.


Some nervously gather in groups

twitch smoking,

Sucking just a bit deeper’

just a tinge of panic.

Remembering the time between sips,

Like it mattered, cursing inside

At promises broken to love and lovers

And suck just a bit deeper.

And at the invisible tick..(pause…wait) tock, it is time to head in for the good seat

Hurry up to get the good seat.

Where they watch and pretend with masked sheepish face

to be called to share what they had practiced between sips.

As lovers left them to the moment.

And then like the quiet brought by an ocean of booze or a mountain of pills or Coke’s snow

sparkle, they are gone.


One late-comer sucks a cloud of vap with a smile. One comes to talk on a phone that never

rung to be joined by another, in bond

Waiting to get back to the sip or the sniff or to reach out waiting to share.

Another spry and clean goes into the Meeting door and before I can look up…she leaves.

She touched the coffin of the saint, she made a noise of one uncomfortable from sitting till a hundred sheepish faces turned

And she left. Church is over another day. Obligation of the few minutes spent with those

trying to kill the screams inside complete.

She leaves and returns to her madness.

The Meeting is over and post-mingle post-nerves hover outside metal doors.

Outside the Meeting, air returns to birds nervous and cars rushing past, late and rushing


And the silence. Inside the Meeting they are quiet. Walls tire and sigh and rinse clean the

judgements of others.

The unknown released from the moment and the Meeting, pause

They pray to take back time lost.

They pray to get back to feeling a tree and a breeze and saying clearly, Hello.

And the door opens and again and again and the birds sit silent.


New nervous ones have started to gather.

And they smoke shakey and wait their turn in the Meeting.




Street Fair in Spring

Street Fair in Spring

(We drove down to the World’s LARGEST Street Fair in Carlsbad this weekend. Met friends and walked and ate and left with tired feet and a quiet ride home back over the mountain to the desert)

Street Fair in Spring

Cool morning start and comfortable shoes
Going to the Street fair.
Early morning Vendors cool buzz chat
Making rounds at the Street Fair.

Excited pockets, nervously empty ready
For ever, come to the Street Fair.

Sunglasses glisten Hollywood signs
Potters Pots thrown out back in a 1000 barns
Rainbow buckets of tie-dye hang on chrome metal racks
Sticky-buns, baked ready shiny sweet
Ready wait for the Street Fair.

Early morning Strollers pick at
Handpainted notepad, carved wooden duck rolling and
Sunglasses sunglasses sunglasses shield a million eyes
and rocks and stones and jewels shine hung on silver chains
Carved by unknown hand

Its handy, its magnetic
Makes it easy
Keeps on shining washable, You like?
Eyes question waiting for flash of green

And a bit of a chew
Of caramels from France and a dream of a place
Sets the People pace
to the Street Fair.


Air warms and rolling padding feet as slap pace quickens, chat shortens
Repeat Incantations of can I help you can I help you
I only have one, this one, this is the best

Smiles migrate from behind boothtable where Vendors sat, stoic
waiting all morning behind grande’ lattes and ready wares

To the chitter chatter, baby holding, pick up put down, pick up put down
Point and point and point and
ANGELA, OVER HERE. They got it here Angela.

And the smiles migrate to people that
came to the Street Fair.

Until a point when the sun is too high
until a pang of hunger not satisfied
By street taco, thai stick lava cone lemonade pizza slice corn dog
teriyaki and a side of curly fries.

And now those that came late aren’t smiling
For baby child fidgets for cool place to put tiny cool head to sleep.
Sun high overhead, no cool shadows, gone for now
At the Street Fair.


Those that smile become those that wander back to
Hot sun cars and crowd trolleys, cool buses or
walk      walk     walk ,hot foot achers burn
tied to the end of aching muscle legs.


From behind now cool 3rd latte, a vendor smiles,
rolling gently left over picked over in cool crinkly brown wrappers,
put away for another late comer

Or the next Street Fair.

Some curse, pulling down floating resin bulgy eye angels, sparkly things shiny
little dog, cat everything

Bright color brochure announced INVISIBLE SCREEN sprinkler solar insurance
Vote for Me Good for you
Taken from dark forest,
wasted now flutter rain down on grey hot asphalt.

Thinning now no talk money counted,
It all ends at 5

moving slow, heading home.

It ends at the Street Fair.

Song outside your window

Song outside your window

(to a sad friend. I am sorry I could not make your heart smile)

To be sad in Paradise
To cry in Paradise
To listen to songs outside your window
running outside, to find the melodies gone,
Flown away is beyond me.

You are there in silence. With only an empty self.

Everyday is giggle and candied jells
Sweet fruit and blue sky
Clearblue to heaven
And below water laughs
And the romance of desert breeze holds you gentle,

Pushed away as if foul.

Yet you sit in darkness, embracing the darkness
Waiting for mutants
Attracting darkness and the mutants to find you
You do not love yourself and the mutants will find you
Cloaked in shawls of darkness, they paw you.

And your heart goes dark
And cold
And empty
And can not feed the soul

Are you deaf to air whispers of love floating ‘round you?

You run to the window and the melody flies away.

You hold sad like crystal, delicate and savory
Pushing away the blue for the blues,
Feeling scorching heat from the sun
And not warmth.

You run to Fantasy Land

You are there in silence.

Finding a spiteful dragon’s dank cavern

And you will still be there


You will never see the love, you will never feel the blue of the sky

and hear the undaunted warble song of a bird outside your window

until you learn to love yourself. You are a Goddess, blessed by the

Muse with the eye and the hand that captures soul but without the love,

you will remain wrapped in a shawl that offers no comfort but weights

heavy on your shoulders

Waiting in Parallel





Just some mornings

For no reason,                                                         Prisms and glass shards

You just feel screaming inside.

Between screams,                                                 Shiny Black Porcelain Doves

little voices, little puzzled voices.

Some mornings, not even if bright, not even if foggy damp

Can’t run far enough away                                      Shelves cluttered by the Past

from everyone.                                                             Misty dews cover all risk

Like in dreams suite, you run and run and run

Never being able to run far enough away from everyone.

You still hear the voices, you still feel the screams.

I crawled headfirst into a box.                          Statues, painted children unseen

was trapped. Unable to breath

boiled in panic, coffin dark.                          Yet serene fragrant drifts in pastels

I worked my way deep into a jagged tunnel.

Unable to move my arms.                           breezes smooth. Gentle breath


I must have screamed and I woke gasping for air.

                                                               We waited on your rainbow pills

                                                                 to grasp hold our dreams.




Surrounded by smiles,                                      Every thing still

surrounded by knowing how it will be.

Just some mornings                                          Trees woven nest barren, 

or no reason,

You just feel screaming inside.                          no movement.

You live in terror, fear, so long

you insult dreams.                                          Treacherous Felines, silent

Cackle at loss

You miss no one and not even sure           Fathers taste fear,anger ages

how to cackle.                                              Evil beauty Queens draw glances

Can’t run far enough away from everyone

And yet still hear the screaming.                      Sun etches all

Worrying each day, staring each day               fading even desert flowers

Wondering each day if you are done

The words stopped coming and you are not done.

Ladle what remains in a ancient pottery jar      Whatever made it squirm

Sealing tight with wax, just to begin again.


                                                                             Pauses to gain control

                                                                             Chisel stones glazed

                                                                              Gem Ruby eyes,

                                                                           an Emperor’s egg golden

                                                                  glare glazed to hungry victim


                                                       We Wait

and slumber returns peace