Monday, March 29, 2010


 Come and be sick with me.
I need that kind of friend.
Share in my sickness and sadness.
Share in my health and happiness.
You feel like something I need more than something I want.
I don't want to live but I can't wait to be born.
I want to tell you how much you give to me.
I want to hear your smile when you speak.
But the time isn't there and you probably wouldn't believe.
I'm tired of making this world tired of me.
So come and stand with me.
Because I've got nowhere to go and no blood left to bleed.
The two ways I could go. Both look dark and cold and the old man said 
there might be snow.
The ice in my veins is starting to show.
If I can't have both roads I'll just walk in the grass.
If I can't be free I'll just have another glass.
So come and be sick with me?
We will tell each other everything, except those things.
We will share all the beliefs and dreams we know are OK.
We will say everything that's accepted to say.
I want something to break but not my arm.
I want something to shake up. I want to fight scream and then laugh 
and make up.
I want to cough up my feelings and bleed out my love.
I want to show you all that I need.
I want to be afraid again, to feel like I've sinned.
I just want to hold you close and dance to slow tormented tunes.
Maybe Conor, Dylan, or some blues?
The Cure for the good and awful news.
So come and be sick with me until we feel.
Let's eat cereal and watch cartoons?
Let's sit close and waste afternoons?
I need that kind of friend.
I need you here again.
Come and be sick with me until the end. 

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

30 of My Favorite Living Artists, people who Inspire me...

                                                "Gunnar" by Sean Cheetham
                                                 Rose by Stephen Schirle

I think it's important to promote the artists who inspire me and countless others. These artists may not be as popular as others or in the public eye, but I have been exposed to thousands of artists and these are the one's who always amaze me with their work.   They have varying styles and approaches, but they all have one thing in common. It's that thing I like.   The respect and appreciation for the world around them and their ability to translate it to all of us. These are artists who don't compromise their vision to please others. They are artists who don't play the political games as far as I can see. They are all what I call TRUE ARTISTS. Doing it just for the love of creation, first and foremost.

Click on their names to learn more about them.

In no particular order:

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Fuct up

What's the point in drinking if I don't get drunk?
The point in thinking if it's already been thunk?
What's the point in speaking if it isn't profound?
The point in singing if it's not the right sound?
What's the point in loving if it isn't for one?
The point in believing when you see the great sun?
What's the point in saying we will be together forever when today's all we've got?
The point in dreaming when all your dreams are shot?
What's the point in walking when there's nowhere to go?
The point in life when it's a re-run show?
What's the point in fucking if you don't cum?
The point in adding it up when I can't find the sum?
What's the point in dying when you are too young?
The point in living when your spring has been sprung?
What's the point of it all, each and every bit?
The point of every last little piece of shit?
Feeling like Niche the nihilistic prick.
I wish you would just suck on my stick.
Feeling like heaven is so far away.
Feeling like leavened is the only bread left.
The floor is dirty and unswept. Time is ugly and lovely.
My clothes are faded and unkept.
I'm not supposed to be negative so I guess I have to stop writing down shit.
I love rainbows and dolphins and that is the truth. I guess that's it...

Monday, March 15, 2010


What's wrong when you can't get up?  What happens when you don't know how to do what needs to be done?  When you try to work but everything you do just makes you feel like more of a jerk.  Time keeps flying by on a clock with a sinister stare.  It knows you need the ticks to slow, but it works harder to leave you bare. You're distracted by food and advertisements or the possibility of sexual gratification.  All in search of a satisfaction you can't find, of a quench for your unquenchable thirst. The sand collects in the pit of your stomach weighing you closer to the ground.  Just when you feel you can't take anymore you look to find there's no one standing around.  You're alone and you'll die this way.  So what is it you’re doing as those ticks fade away?  Why must you torture yourself with dreams of content?  What is this life and for who was it sent?  I don't know, I can't decipher the language or crack the code no matter what, or how hell bent.  I look for answers but I always turn back to the void.  I think if I can just get that quick nut?  Or just fuck her thick butt?  If I could just win one time… 

If I could just write that one line.

Then it'd be okay right? But I can hear that voice in the back of my mind.  Telling me I can't.  Telling me it won't.  The ash in my pit won't turn to sweet nectar.  That voice is a demon an empty threat left for destruction.  He's here to stop the things I feel just beneath the surface.  I won't let him.  I'm peeling now and the fresh soul is coming through.  It's clean and awake.  It's aware and it's true.  It's me and it's you. I can feel the energy you give me with a smile and a confident nod.  I can feel your love like it's coming from god.  I know this life lives in your eyes.  I know it's you that makes me try.  And I thank you for the gift you hand over each day.  Unselfishly you wrap it and pack it with needs.  The needs I've asked for with sorrowful eyes, the needs that allow me to search the night’s sky.  You made this dreamer.  It's you who believed, you who loved me when the world was conceived.  You've given me more than I could ever achieve you've offered that hand, that soul, that belief. You are amazing awesome and sweet.  These words sound so silly because to explain you it would take ones that haven't been imagined, spoken, perceived.

Eastbound and Down- Spec Script

Here is the next sequence of events from my Eastbound and Down spec script!  



Twelve year old Kenny stands with his older brother DUSTIN at his side, on the dirt road. Kenny wears an oversized (#55 POWERS) baseball jersey. A mustang speeds off, kicking up dirt in their faces.

Wanna go kick the shit out of mongoloid Mike?
The two boys smile at each other, pick up sticks, and run down the dirt road.

Thank god we left that shitty ass trailer park and moved back home to Shelby.


The shotgun still digs into Kenny’s face. The door opens wider to reveal CLARK “super” POWERS (late fifties, Tom Selleck look, overweight, tacky Lion pendant, unruly chest hair, he wears an open robe and tight sweat pants.) 

I spent my whole life trying to be like this mother fucker...  I had some good times on account of it too; millions of dollars, girls lickin’ my asshole, Mexican, Belizian, Spaniard pussy, and a shit ton of kickass b-b-ques... But, none of that matters now.  Here we are, standing in front of the same old fuckin’ trailer he left us at twenty-five years ago. 
Clark’s girlfriend WHISPER, a twenty-something blonde with big fake “everything,” walks by in the background, nude.

Supe? Who is it? Shit, come back and finish fuckin’ me!
Clark ignores her and keeps the gun on Kenny.

I said.  Who the FUCK are you?

What? It’s me... I’m your fuckin’ son. You don’t know who I am?
Kenny stares at the barrels of the gun. Clark pulls back the gun, smiling, and points it to Kenny’s crotch, revealing that Kenny has just urinated on himself. Clark then points the gun to the ground and starts laughing.  

Aw shit! It’s my piece a turd son.
Kenny looks down at the urine spot and tries wiping at it. Whisper walks up to the door laughing, still nude.  

Is he the smart one?

Nope.  The fuckin’ retard who got all my talent. 

Dusty? Pffft! I could have been a fuckin’
astronaut scientist.  Anyway, I just came to see if your sorry ass was still alive.  Some faggot agent said you were dead, so I had to come check for myself.  To be quite honest with you, I’m a little sad it isn’t true.  Kenny looks at Whisper with shame, then turns to leave.

Come on.  You didn't drive all the way here in that black man’s truck just to come and see if I was alive. Come on in and have a Miller Lite you little pissed up bitch.  I have some sweat pants you can wear.
(to Whisper)
Put some fuckin’ clothes on and get this little pussy a diaper.  No, I’m just kiddin’!  Get him my nice sweat pants.  You know the ones you like me to make sweet animalistic love to you in.
Kenny looks disgusted.

Diaper? Ha fuckin’ ha, asshole.  Other than coming to make sure you didn’t finally eat shit and die, I was coming to tell you how much you fucked me up, and--

Na-na-naboo-boo.  Quit your fuckin’ cryin’. 
Clark walks away from Kenny and pulls out his last two Miller Lite cans from the fridge. 

Kenny steps into the tiny trailer. It’s riddled with old pictures of Clark and various women, him playing baseball, trophies, and a poster of him which reads, “Samsung’s “SUPER” Lion CLARK POWERS”. A Samsung Lions Jersey (#55 POWERS) hangs encased in glass on the wall autographed by Clark Powers.

You have your jersey, signed by you, hanging in your own fuckin’ house?
Clark comes up behind Kenny while he stares at the jersey. He gets eerily close to Kenny’s ear, his curled mustache nearly touches Kenny.

You want it?  Thousand bucks, take it now! 
Kenny whips his head around. Clark is standing with the beers, smiling. Whisper comes out of the room in a slutty dress, holding sweats with a roaring lions head on the crotch.  

No! I do not want your fuckin’ piece a shit jersey. Or your lion sweats, although they are one of the most awesome pieces of clothing I have ever seen in my short, yet beautiful life. 
(to Whisper)
And you.  I got to be honest with you.  I wouldn’t wear that to a dog fight.
(to Clark)
I will take a beer though.  We need to talk about some shit, you old fuck. 


Dustin is in his catcher’s gear. DUSTIN JR. holds the speedometer facing the strike zone. WAYNE, wearing Kenny’s jersey and cap, hurls one straight down the middle.  Dustin shakes his hand and smiles at Wayne.

That was a heater!

Dustin Jr. looks at the speedometer and jumps up and down. CASSIE watches from the porch, smiling.  An arm wraps around her shoulder.  It’s STEVIE JINOWSKI wearing a Kenny Powers mask and hair hat. Cassie shakes off his arm and jogs into the yard to the safety of her family. Stevie flips her off.  ROSE mimicks Stevie from her baby walker. 

Church bitch.


Janitors are finishing up the quote on the school sign.  It reads, “Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils... - Louis Hector Berlioz.


April sits at her desk, staring out the window.  She sees Cutler, outside chatting up one of the “hot moms.” Cutler pats the mom’s ass as she walks away, he turns back to see April watching, she glances away quickly and looks to Kenny’s bat which is in the trash.  She looks to her desk and sees the headshot he gave her, signed Powers XOXO!!!.


Jinowski lays in Kenny’s room staring at Kenny’s signed photo through the Kenny Mask he’s wearing.  Jinowski is obviously masturbating, with the door open.  He comes to a quick finish and turns to see Wayne across the hall, watching in horror.  Jinwoski pulls up the mask and looks at Wayne who’s squeezing his eyes closed. Jinowski slams the door. 

Friday, March 12, 2010

Cemetary Dwellings

The cherry blossoms are here. The ones you will never see. Somehow they're here for you anyway. When I think of you the sun gets warmer.  My skin feels newer. I know what to do when I remember you. I know which way to go, I know which road. I depend on these times alone with you in my heart. I hear so much more when all I hear is silence.  I fear so much less when I think of the violence that took you away.  The fight to be first that left you last. What is the point if we aren't fighting? Are we left alone dying? If I lose my fight I might as well crawl in your box of bones and spend the night. These words you call out to me through the ravens caw. These things you tell me in the soft silent wind and the buzz of your wings. These things you give me in the warmth of the sun. The blossoms are beautiful and when I look at them I can see. You're living inside. You're that single bee going from one to the next and sharing the blessed. You will just keep working there's no time to rest.

A man has arrived with a group of three. His brother his daughter and the clipboard lady. She's ready to close another deal. He's got three with him but he's left all alone. In his angry replies I can hear the sadness of his eyes. In his lost walk and anxious talk I can see him bleed for the one he's lost. I can hear his tears as they tell him, isn't this nice? There's a view of the mountains from here! One boasts. As the three try to decide. He leans on the tree. It's holding him up as his heart bleeds. The bee carries on his work. Impregnating the next flower with life, for all its worth.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Kenny Powers of Eastbound and Down

This spec was written as a follow up to the first season finale.  I was enthralled and amazed by the characters of this show and the overall writing which offers you a character who is really not a very good guy and is very hurtful to others, but inside all of that bigotry and rotten behaviour is a heart of gold and a character you can't help but pull for.  I wrote this script as an almost, "Where is Kenny Powers now?" after the final episode of season one.  If you are a fan of the show, please read it and tell me what you think.  "If not just shut up because I don't give a fuck what you think anyway nerd!"

When he has nothing and nowhere left to turn, Kenny Powers must return to his roots and beg his estranged father for a shot at getting back in the game...


Eastbound and Down’s hilarious character and foul mouthed bigot, Kenny Powers has just left behind everyone he loves in Shelby to pursue his last shot at getting back in the majors.  When he learns his “Big Break” has fallen through, he is left with nowhere to turn.  He must return to his roots in the last place he wanted to, the trailer home of his estranged father, Ex- Baseball washout, Clark “Super” Powers to beg for a shot at getting back in the game… the Korean baseball game!  It’s his last shot at redemption and winning back the love of his life, but his arch nemeses Reg Mackworthy and Ashley Schaeffer will stop at nothing to ridicule and humiliate him.   Back home in Shelby everything is changing without him while his one true love April Buchanan is waiting to share some important news!

Script Title: Eastbound and Down – Chapter 7. “Who’s your Daddy?”
Genre: Comedy

Number of pages: 27

HERE is the opening, if people want more I will add each scene!

                INT. KENNY'S DENALI

                KENNY POWERS puts in his audio autobiography: "You're
                Fuckin' Out. I'm Fuckin' in."  His recorded voice calls
                out from the speakers.   

                                      RECORDED KENNY
                          When my ass was twelve years old, my
                          piece of shit, cocksucker of a sperm
                          donor daddy left me and my brother Dusty
                          all alone... while our mom was all full
                          of some real fucked up ass cancer or some
                          shit. Anyway, that's besides the point,
                          and I don't like getting off topic. I was
                          trying to explain how I became a God
                          amongst men.

                Kenny turns down the radio and sits in silence as his
                rearview dreamcatcher sways. He reaches up and stops it. 

                                      KENNY (V.O.)
                          Dreams? Fuck Dreams.  I used to have
                          those... And I used to be one of the
                          greatest of God's creations too!  But,
                          now look at me. I just left the one girl
                          that loved me for who I really am.  Not
                          just cause of the super star, world class
                          athlete, all around ass kickin', son of a
                          fuck, mother fuckin' MAN that I am. Or
                          because of the shit ton of money I was
                          gonna be worth, but cause she really
                          understands me.  She was the only girl
                          who could make me cum on myself with just
                          kissin'.  And she loved me too. God
                          Damnit. What the fuck happened to me?

                Kenny adjusts the rearview mirror to see himself.

                                      KENNY (V.O.) (CONT'D)
                          I'll tell you what happened, I came in
                          there like a tornado of greatness and
                          saved them from their sad lives and they
                          all wanted a piece of my shit... But,
                          when I heard that Tampa guy on the phone
                          I just had to be alone again with my
                          above average I.Q.  I had to get outta

                                                                 CUT TO:

                EXT. GAS STATION - SHELBY, N.C. - EVENING

                A car pulls up.  APRIL BUCHANAN sheepishly gets up from
                the curb to join her ex, TERRENCE CUTLER.  They hug.  

                                                                 CUT TO:

                INT. KENNY'S DENALI

                Kenny has tears welled in his eyes. He drives on.

                                      KENNY (V.O.) (CONT'D)
                          FUCK! Now, because I left April and her
                          wonderfully supple titties behind in that
                          fuckin' cunthole of a town, here I am
                          with nothing and nowhere left to turn.  I
                          never felt this shit-fucked of a feeling
                          since that day he left us.

                Kenny pulls into a dirt driveway through a thicket of
                pine trees scraping against his Denali.

                          I hate fuckin' nature. Scratchin' this
                          expensive shit. I can't afford this
                          shit... This has got to be  the worst
                          fuckin' day of my life.

                                                                 CUT TO:


                Kenny snorts a bump of coke, then gets out.  He wipes the
                dirt off of his snakeskin boots and faces the door. 

                                      KENNY (V.O.)
                          This here is the last place I wanted to
                          end up, but here I am, ready to face him.
                          Cause my ass ain't no fuckin' pussy.  My
                          ass is a champion.  I'm the mother
                          fuckin' Shelby sensation, fuckers!  

                Kenny slowly climbs the three step staircase breaking the
                second stair. He pulls his hair behind each ear and
                knocks on the tattered door. Suddenly, a double barrel
                shotgun bursts forth from an opening in the door and
                presses up against Kenny's Face.

                                      MALE VOICE (O.C.)
                          WHO the FUCK are you?

                SHOW TITLE: EASTBOUND & DOWN

Thursday, March 4, 2010

"Be my Valentine?"

I did this sketch to go with this poem, with my new Pen Charles Hu gave me!   


All we need is love she said from the other side of the moon.  I believe her and know she will be there for me to see.  All I need is love to feel the needs of my own disease.   My own disbelief.   My own grief.
The grievances of trance-less decadence in return for my failed retreat.  What is love if no one knows? What is love if it can be needed?  What is love when there's nothing left to concede?

I know I've got something to figure.  Something to trigger a new response?  Something I've had all along?  Something I've had a million countless times but something I've only had once.

Forgotten regret makes me remember to forget.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010


portrait I did a while back, It needs a lot of work but I was happy with some aspects.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Demoneater sketch


This is a sketch for a Graphic Novel Idea I have about a boy who can see "His Demons" as actual beings growing from his skin.  He is tormented throughout his life by these demons.  I will post some more about this story soon...

Candidness is next to Godliness

Candid is always best. Whether it be a photograph, a moment between friends, or a face you make during good sex. When we lose that idea of "looking right" and become the moment we're in. That is where life and love and the pursuit of happiness exists. It's in those little moments when our mind is silenced and we allow ourselves to become that look, that laugh, that tear, that sigh. I can preach from my pulpit about knowing it with all my heart. But to what end? With what point? I've surely got no idea how to get there. I simply want to cherish the fact it's there.

But as it is, you can't really acknowledge that candid truth without falsifying it somehow. As soon as it's seen it's gone like the light you see in her eyes.

So I don't know what I'm trying to say or even why. I think maybe that candid truth is our only truth or our only lie for that matter...

Maybe that IS god or that spirit of the universe we all know to be there? That true lie some of us know so well we call ourselves agnostic or atheist in order to piss off the daddy of our own consciousness. Maybe god isn't meant to be seen? Maybe it-she-him-that isn't meant to be acknowledged, understood, loved, hated or even ignored, but maybe just a candid realism we shouldn't try to see and only try to be.

Girard Marchant 10/16/1957 - 08/20/2008

I lost my "Dad dad daddio" on 08/20/2008 and since his funeral on 08/27/2008 I have been visiting his grave site and sometimes I get the urge to write while I am out there and I wanted to post this for the first of hopefully many writings on my new blog.

"The End"

It's not too eventful. The digging of the grave. Doesn't seem like much work. Two men a tractor and a few boards. That's all it takes. A life is gone and a time forgotten. They come on a little golf cart to do their work.

Silence bleeds in between their machines of absolution. In the silence I can hear the beat of the ravens wings. It sounds so pure like when a child sings. I'm here wondering how to make my thing happen and how tomorrow will look through my everyday glasses and worn out tires. Wondering how people will look at me or how I'll breathe. But they just dig and prepare for the latest soul to rest. Sometimes I wish for that lonely sleep. But what happens after that?

I can feel the cold wet grass become warm and dry under my bare feet as the sun of today introduces all the possibilities of another existence for the two of us. The world and I. My love and I. My life and I. My work and I. My death and I. The warm sun on my back reminds me of dreams and things I wanna be. The warm sun on my back reminds me of me. The warm sin in my heart reminds me to bleed.

I'm looking straight ahead for something but I keep forgetting I'm looking and get lost in the rush of yesterday which makes tomorrow a blink. Then it's here again another year I don't even know where it went. Somehow it got bent. I fight these thoughts of darkness In the dark I'm sleeping. I need an elixir, a fixer, something or somehow to break my disgrace. Something to help me see my face.

I can't find it and I don't even know what it is or how it fits. Like a new pair of shoes or a Christmas gift. I just keep searching and through this mess I sift.

But for what? For who? Just to keep from being the next hole they dig? I guess it's better than giving in.

After they're done digging up six feet of dirt they load it in a truck bed and haul it away and like the remains of a life lived, it slowly rolls away. Then the boards are placed and the tractor leaves the site. Ready for the pain and resolution of tomorrows broken heart goodbyes.