Cyclical Wordplay Artwork

Cyclical Wordplay Artwork
Title: Mountain Reflection on Cyclical Wordplay (original manuscript made into art)

On the Artwork

On the Artwork

By using a spontaneous form of action painting, without touching the brush to the paper at any time, three different shades of paint; gold, white and black, are used to emphasize free form, spontaneous creative expression not only in the written word, but in the space that it occupies. This method of action painting which withholds all contact with brush and medium excites notions of letting pure spontaneity occur through the open-ended natural course of creation taking shape out of human hands (in the air).

This representation of the spontaneous action of free form creativity in writing makes the viewer look at the entire page as one unified expression in the creative form of the particular written piece, whereby the empty space defines the writing as much as the words expressed on the page. Those who habitually write freehand, especially free form, improvisational writers, know that the limited size and type of paper (e.g. whether there are lines, creases, folds, graphics, etc.) inevitably divides up the rhythm of open-ended spontaneous expression.

By utilizing circular objects, such as plastic compact disc panels and other circular objects, I have used a method of action painting where I flit a paint-covered brush repeatedly to introduce a dense splatter effect over a circular form in order to regard the fact that all writing is inevitably formed by the shape of the letter, word and sound through which its expression carries. Another method of action painting brought me to form sizeable globs of paint in shape of an oval, especially at the end of a tail of paint or alone, confirming the universal truth that with free form, spontaneous movement, all form inevitably assumes a circularity (or cyclicality), as represented in the oval, sphere and all other circular formations found in nature that are central to the creative essence of form.

The center of the artwork details a line with a globular oval end protruding into a circular form. This marriage of two different methods of action painting, spraying over a concretized foreign object and allowing natural shapes to occur, is the central image in the piece, which glorifies human intent metaphorically through many complementary symbols, as in the sperm and the egg among others. The globular oval and thick line formed near to the core image represents a leading expression, passing away from the center’s concretized circular form, from which the rest of the paint devolves as miniscule spatial occupations on the page. The rest of the action painting signifies the importance of relatively negligible marks defining a whole expression of greater density and presence.


The process of creating this piece: freehand spontaneous writing on notepads, transcribing writings onto a computer, editing form of writing into conventional poetics, typing out each piece onto self-prepared craft paper, stitching together each page into a wall mural (or spatial literature), action painting, re-configuring the entire spatial layout page-by-page, photographing and scanning each page, designing the end artwork via computer software



Opening the page to experimental, improvised writing which emphasizes and attempts a most strict depiction of the spontaneous nature of mind can be perceived with harrowing aspiration in the realm of continuity; that is flipping the page.

As a forewarning of sorts, this collection of writing, as devised for readership, is the result of an editing which has purpose in giving the spontaneous flow of mental activity form. While attempting to convey the refreshing action of letting go, all structure and boundary and, in sense, constructs of mind are dissolved.

The writing asks many questions to the reader: Where do we place ourselves as we remain glued to the mirror image of our world? When do we notice that the contour and shape of the mirror-image reflected into our minds is in fact an artificial; that is reflective function, as opposed to a direct sight? How do we understand and make observations into the absolved outpouring of mental fruition through a most basic, almost instinctual, resonance with words as mere vessels of human energy? How can we instill in the reading a sense of self, a theatrical play of noticing self as natural form, spontaneously resolved and perceived in the moment?

The title of the collection “Cyclical Wordplay” brings to light the foundational nature of creation as a cyclical process, with rhythmic momentum in a constant transition between renewal and decomposition. The idea “Wordplay” refers to a notion that words can be as sounds on an instrument, simply meant to be full to the brim with a particular feeling and raw emotion/thought/idea/sensation through which it is able to carry into a context of form and meaning. So, in a sense, we can conceive of words' symbolic sound, through which the newfound impression of the given moment may relay its inward need to express itself in a very subtle form; through a word. Each individual reader is as an instrument through which that symbolic sound or word idea is carried and resonates with a new meaning each time, according to the particular temperament and character of the individual, allowing that symbolic sound or meaning to carry through them as its basic vibration.


Sketch from Above

Improbability in Upswing

The tongue
a slick wretch of smoldering ash
phasing out into the bright eyeless morning.

The belly
a hurling progress of air
folding tight over scratchy blood wisps
in proper disarray

From the asshole 
light as moonshine songs
on the back of a long-necked blonde
ruining her penchant for stout drained 
and bearded Jewish gods
and an ugly sour moves
breathing shifty smiles

In the upswing of a jet train
cooling into the sonic blues
of a new world horizon
soothing the answers of the afraid
in mundane pockets of strange insignificance
a judgment inane

Re-working fluidity into the brain-splotched hide
of a perfect whisper 
into the historic tribe of ancestral compromise

Heading strong into a battle 
towards the away
in a perspiring lawful gyration 
engraved as Ouroboros
a serpent that shall die
from a pandemic hung over Amazonian lakes
triggered to fuel the toxic lust of a few embittered white slaves
launching figments of the imagination into a monkey ruled space
afloat on an ocean of stolen Mexican or Indian gold
and providing torturous vandals
with a home and name

Rocking through the amniotic
flood of the saved

We shout in stuttering ruminations
over a nihilistic desk
and attempt to cry
weird helpless short stories
into the mud of our breath
and as the whaling shores reach single-handedly into the rug of traditional mores
we become suddenly attracted to the lady who has been through at least four wars
and animalistic, from a drive outside in the shivering lows
there arises another incapacitated fjord-shaped mugger
singing to the groove of a healthy malaise
in a wild out of tune way
ranting all along about the next probability

Tuesday, December 29 2009


to entice druggists
to remove their belts
and mold the swoons in their cash for laughs

to engross the love for play in workaholic dreamers
sitting lax on a moonwalk bud
rotting in the melt of a half-digested corpse

each cannot stop
oncoming painful throat

Tuesday, December 29 2009

Drone seating

she’s weary

behind thick glassed highs
in the giggling aftershow gloom of the warm winter sky
brewing wry wisps of blue

the craving moon
loses its grip and drizzles
into the mirage click
of a computer stare

drone and despair
behind me

the woman’s leg

Tuesday, February 16 2010

Lonesome day of movement

grown thin with distance
as another hairy, greased band shines
reckless before the arrow spy
and his envisioned grave

who hails cabs
in the Siberian gruel of angry change
as we ransack the factories of uproarious disrepair
and the mechanistic bored train crashes
killing the meagre European glance
into the frantic rush of civilized absence

lonesome day of movement
through spider web sands
and drunken coasts
of blood red remorse
filing in by the pulp fiction pages
breeding scummy eyes that talk in kisses
and swoon on the porch of another early breakfast

groom who wails curiously at night for the pub dreary life
that awaits
after the cut string of golden dreams seethes and falls
to the ash of the smoky avalanche noon

in Canada’s hibernation mind
of the un-bloomed
and unborn
wenches who lament
the dry phantom queen and her uncaring cool sleeping high
with simple touches of the grave beyond
landing in sun croaked alien poverty

my first wishes grow callous
at the knock of a burnt vegetable gum
that sneaks into the cracks of layered skin
beaming with the color of a white night
turning in late with the last nest of wild being

unloved rhythms, fuming with uninspired dread
as we caress the lung wired cane
of bone sweat
carved merciless into the roaming wood
that answers in black hills
and a flat womb of earth

Tuesday, February 16 2010

Northern mind

lip sweet
and unfettered thought
swung music
intensified in the intimate romantic environment

ideal collection of the two-bodied
trailing waves in the ocean
of serene all-encompassed feeling

silently bringing the visions of the blessed to realized heights
in amnesic bliss
hearing only the fizzing of a tongue
sifting through the hydrated glory of a deep violet sight
darkly fixed inside the arborescent wilderness

to the foreign drum of an impenetrable toxicity
left unconsumed and needed by feet
lit under concrete sustained magic
of the urban disillusioned

northern mind
bringing in the steady rings of a consciousness
prepared as the instrument of a government culture
performing the theatrical stronghold

of minority no-release
a fish-burdened town of extracted marrow
through procedural temperaments
that go un-led and steam up
with chaotic strictures
that demean the meaning
of man and woman
or masculine-feminine time

Tuesday, February 16 2010

Leaving nowhere

loopy adolescent
and boasting

a raucous
and numb
for nowhere


Tuesday, February 16 2010

The last sound

when was the last sound
that lent meaning
to the claustrophobic business
of airline sleeping

ear-foam music
and the idle screams
of the thoughtless few
who seek convenience
in the cinematic religion
of mass transportation

headless visibility
and divined mapping
swallowing the cloud
shifted lightning ground
with ruinous might
cutting through the immense distance
of our freed land
only bonded

under the wishful terror
as incantations
to feed the public deities.

Tuesday, February 16 2010

Canadian night


defense with the arms of astronomic flesh
weaving listless tomes
into back-alley food slang addict rat
cursing in Experimental english
for the beautiful sex pack
of genetic mug torn blood
praying old and strange songs
of morbid laws
that kindle
in the unsightly meandering
lifted pull from metal glass arrangements
stinging the sensitive pink swift burnt love
for a bodiless dress
that curls soft under the train sped winds
of 8th street

like an art ward mural
into the unending chalky skin
flayed belief reading
red propaganda

at the icy and charred separation
from family and god.

Tuesday, February 16 2010

Another worldview

at dawn's sacrificial wading

a groove sweetly prized
as the relative truth of our frantic, overgrown hallucination

in sickening respite
from the earliest lame vanity

before the show appears
as human death

powerless to the mold
resounding to an inner frequency

deranged sad laughter
groaned thick in a sumptuous tumult

under the prying talons
a delectable fire answers in blues-swing hoodlum homes

temporary as the submissive
upbringing of one purifying lash

rending the nerve-wracked fingers
of torturous warring
within the Nile’s tantrum phase

skinny, lingering smoke fix
and we eye the 99 names

to the moment's reaching up
to the negative female symbol

comrade against these forbidden culturati
timed to the arrival of the outdoor preacher

worshipping the lost dead
world of stone and writing.

Tuesday, February 16 2010

Desert history

and hash car
southern California
advertised with Middle-Eastern lies
and slick forgotten self-conceived prophecy

the modern mental pandemic
vanishing without place
in the cyber-sphere trenches
of the eternally unrelenting

first world wars imbibed
through consumptive passivity

on the boulevard’s torched singularity
in this beginning decade of solar functionality

from the cyclic foundation of space
as a pulsating inverted birthing

as creative inhalation
that speaks in visual tongues
through an ocean-sky

horizontal corridor
leading to the sixth direction
to the place where spirits roam

into boundary dissolution
of the fear-shed community

snakeskin brethren -

whose psychedelic vision
embraces the twelve possible cults

whose 7-year round occurs
with silent motionless inception
during a four-year journey

merely waiting

for the black hole diffusion
of the one impossible
drop through Mt. Hozomeen
where Kerouac learnt to fall
and be outside of the doing
that seemed

towards endogenous entropy
yet instead formulated
as the perception of the staff

fabled source of life
for the intuitive-

incensed few
in their Indic caves

breeding the children
of originality
led through a piercing spine-tipped pencil

Tuesday, February 16 2010

The Mythic West

Cyclops’ rise
dimming only with the muse’s laughing dream
and her unreasonable echoing, cries

sharing the eagle’s pride
yet destroyer of all

working lazy
in the shallow stream of clarity
and eating free
in Mexican dreadlock bustle

the generosity of a chanting mage
inspired by love for the Tree
that spreads roots
of the mollified earth

whose giving breathes iridescent crystalline surety
under a city lain bare as a leafless twig
in the winter of human occupation

over the frigid glare of our northern memories
fickle, as we approach a secondary wisdom
understood from blind precepts
that erase the open wounds found in deep cleansing
and spiritual promise

as the uncovered subconscious recollection redeems the sordid impositions
in the process of multi-generational
trauma and becoming

able to revisit the relaxed state of the Child
admiring the Parent
as incarnation of a dream-character

belonging only known through tribulations of self-awareness
interred thoroughly with Helpers
revealing their self
as not-other
same aspect of you

and bled into one with a Taste
that experience grounds world delusion

in the volatile expression of profaned monotheistic truth!

the explosive ruins of the loquacious mind
react to a lunar philosophy
(on oriental calendar time)

that stresses the dissonant way
of relation, as earthly direction
towards the celestial tune

sounding echoes of reason
into the joint-sparked play of seeing
the folded circulatory reflection

in external light
as spoken epic

with the meaning of one

Tuesday, February 16 2010 10:00pm
Flight to Los Angeles, holding only Canadian currency. 
Children weep. Jazz and Chilean fiction.

Creating in the City

Expressions amid Urban SpRaWl

An Artist's Line

Charged into the luring night
Carved into the alluring heights
Nuanced into tribal delights
Singing with the ancients in tones of space delayed, silent
Prophecies spell dismay and the pandemic smites the land
Wired fortuitous growling harbored animals’ grow to fame
Sparkling wizard beards of vision drunken smoldering
Breathless festering urban elision of peopled life
Instead populations crave dry-mouthed
Fingers wade and stop at money
Childless fathers and the motherless binge within a month,
Afraid street side mission

We show our fangs to the insane
Lie and kiss the hatred in our names
Why don’t we simply play?
Follow the footsteps of daughters in love with others
And falling with the rain possibility
Emergent and untamed
Lowly demise rearranged with pride
“The art pales in comparison”
“To the experiential!”
We go…where home is a path
And our skin splits and cracks with sunlight and smiling tears
To pass away in weakness

A flickering moon dismisses the angered insinuations of self-mourning
And a lonely family away from all known
Steering clear, keeping awake
Lifting above the circularity
Rhythms of strong liars who dart nimbly like a constant trick
They do not stop and wish for a change of the guard (or at least the costume)
Wondering if…we all suddenly died
Would tomorrow hide?
Or would the sun rise?
Without blinking and greet the naked Earth
Inspired to a new meeting between eternal friends
A secret in keeping told only through the listening of storytellers’ weavings
Meaning nothing to no one

Only a sound for the memory that once was upon the artist’s living
And the random birth that flew without mind
And ended up…

Friday, April 9 2010
            A room in Calgary’s urban sprawl

Hawk over a farmer’s field

The hawk
that steams in
subtle intricacies

The emotive acrid stress of tears released
from the skin of a planetary erection

The tame bred into our inane fledgling grave
of bursting bound-locked waste,
etched with numinous soul

In the upturned pangs of a universe unnerved
on the psychic-enmeshed phase of atmospheric delight

In the imagined painting of all swaying and crucified worth
fornicating openly against the light paged future
and blunted cross-eyed in a circular maze of her orgasmic ploy for a sorry breakfast

On Monday’s staked rage, we drain and drain the followings of divinity
throughout pulses of grain and sweat in the final drink

Before deciding to cross the impassioned switch
into non-being on the lifted sky
coming thunderous in the eyes and ears of a late transmigration
into a head of wires and a spotted flame that rises broken in the quaking silence of loss
and drowning in the oxygen gush of utter perfection

Bluish gray and the opaque brink of highest terminal altitude
flying still against the belly of earth’s integumentary life
straining in a cursed name to breach the surrounding flesh of unearthly ice
in the telescopic fire of an avian mind,
and sudden grasping with the stretched tongue of passive death,

“a fallen way grows above the ceiling of humanity
in a flutter of fear and reverence for the quiescent vacuum of entire blackness
and spiritual duress”

Loving the sacred breath of hot tainted lag
of the tragic beauty
who became animalistic in a single visceral moment
only to look down on the integral mire of woven screaming
at the blessed forgotten dream of the virgin
in Mexico calling with every figment of pride mustered
from the smoke of ancient impressions of superficial divisions
sweetening the catch into a released cold moon
undone on the back of a talon
seeding the lovers intermingling with the sharp pleasures of stone and grass,
as a feather presses swift under the enjoined sexual tight figures
preparing to create the universal wave of continuity
in the fallen bird’s heart
drifting over untold slow fissures within the fragmented body of self-taught work
that lay sacrificed to the unknowing violent west of paradox in action
dreaming the lucid air and buried with lust in the ashen grave of a mother’s living breast
to answer the prayers of a man resting softly on the back of a sea creature
unmoving and shocked with ruinous leisure
and idle passing.
- date unknown  
                                                                        Inspired by a song written by a friend from Red Deer, AB

all rivers have one source

These rivers never meet the ocean
so as to return to the source in another form

These rivers create
a pond,
nourishing the soil
and creatures surrounding

a giving source
to rain
that flows gently into the other
creeks and streams,
who one day may become great

leading back to the source
direct cycles,
into the greater round
inspiring life to move
in different ways,
through different eyes
and fresh movements,
drawing close
to a reckoning
with Truth,
yet remaining ever-natural
with specific beauty,
being immersed lightly
in being for the pure enjoyment
of its smallest waves
as they rise so gently
and sink unknowingly
with a most subtle whisper
behind a fantastic passion
eager to express unity
with perfect awe in world dreams

Up, a new way to be
for the moment
and its own living mystery,
“what is before?”
March 9, 2011
Chinatown Calgary. I live beside the Bow, in all its humility

An Old Saying

"there's an old saying, 

that goes something like;

‘a person that knows their place is a demi-god,

and the place of a person,

is a god,

and the One who has no personality

 and is everywhere,

is the God’

a really old saying,

no one knows where it came from"

Russell steps off the sidewalk
onto the cold, freezing ground,
it's another blisteringly unbearable day,
he, arm in arm with his loving companion,
begins the day out into the open horizon

"if a bird so much as flutters in this weather, I catch a cold!
I have a terrible reaction to anything with wings,
a symptom of living close to pigeons"

in bed with his love,
they face the ceiling,
covered from neck to toes
in a leopard-print blanket

"what was your first word?"

"I said a phrase, 'the toast is hot!'"

and, was it all imagined?
a strange throwback to a terrible urge?
an unlikely warmth that sprang from inside?
a sexual need?
enticed beyond reality? 
beyond the body?
calling towards the supernatural?
a whispering inside?

to lie?
and wakeful, conspire? 

March 8, 2011

Urbanized Personality

the urbanized personality,
and his drive.
before he dies,
what anxiety!
what neurosis!
to cast away true love for an instantaneous spark,
with enough distance,
tongue the earthly mold in an imperfect, lonely body;
creating freedom out of mindless neglect,
a neglect that transitioned into memory
from an all-powerful, superhuman forgetfulness.

and, at the final hour, a joke. 
for no one.
without laughter.




the only ever truth, beauty, and hostess to life on this forsaken planet, 

my muse, my love, my dream woman, and not mine at all, never once, 

so painfully present, in painstaking moment's awareness, 

driven to inspire in every wave curling back beneath the ocean's global current, 

a lush secret hidden by the nearby shore, 

her smile, faint yet apparent, directed towards me, and never once obscured nor changing, 

a stone, foundational, with gargantuan humanity, 

the worth in honest feeling, to be healthy, happy, alive and sharing every sunrise and sunset, 

with a love for life, wide-eyed, never blinking, and earnest enough to be hopelessly afraid of the future and its narrowing cavernous curiosities, 

struck with wonder and with thoughts strewn in all directions, 

reflecting within into the deepest, most revealing corners of the heart, 

to reveal her face, again, winking unflinching into the bright catastrophic demise of this blue-eyed heroic soul whose literary touch swings chaotic over the musical bond that unites our embodied faces, 

resisting false movement, staying true, rhythmic with steady pulse, together, 

collecting common stirrings, collapsing and rising to the oceanic motion, 

perpetual understanding, peaceful camaraderie, the loving dependence, 

physically complete, yet new, 

reminiscent of a returning, out into our Mother's embrace, who we know, we created, from our Love, and its willing expression as absolute purity, while for the moment, expressively human, individual, unique, distinct and spontaneously unprepared and fresh as each new breath, (or quiet snore) into the all-dissolving Canadian night

March 8, 2011
Chinatown Calgary. Up too late, away too long from the bedside beside her