Shots from one of the social justice rallies in Cincinnati circa 2002 after the police murder of Timothy Thomas. Shot on a Minolta 35mm film camera and age stressed with a Nikon D5100.
2003 A Beautiful Woman Excerpt – Bit o’ Bliss
And Job dreamt of bliss, and it was purple and green and blue and fuzzy like a fucking care-bear. And it was always setting, and yet never ending. Achieving always, it was. And the bliss was cream-colored fear, rather than the stress-colored fear of everyday life, the guilt-covered fear of family and work, the worth-colored fear of friends and self, and the bliss was cream colored fear. And that was the color of Job, he of the soft marble and the straight and unflawed arching of the back. This was Job, he of the caramelized lips from the heat of a pure and temporary all-uniting passion, he of the true home between the long legs wrapping you into their selves, he of the cock electrically connecting through her open wound to the base of her spine in a circular energy that ran up to her brain and out of her mouth into his, and from his brain down his spine and through his cock again into her. Job of that, this was Job, that bliss. He of the forever-nights in spring under cool moons inside soft kisses. And there was only the minutest brush and speck of distrust. Job had no longer such energy to resist in the name of protection. Soft energy poured into his eyes and wrapped rainbow vines around his ribs and pulled open all his arteries for the cornucopia of spiritual rubbing to follow. Job was not floating, Job was the action itself of being weightless. Job was the adjective of nothing. And like all bliss this one took him fearless into a sleeping void, a darkness that without bliss would be harrowing he now floated calmly into like one inhales and for the last time in his life Job had a deep and long healing sleep.
He awoke again in the deep night and the sky was a cleared field of glorious dots fading into the bronze and glimmering lighted and airy void of the city lights. Orange bronze perpendicular sharp edged concrete and glowing bouquet of the bright trivialities of human achievement. And at this time of night a strange chorus of car horns and sirens were having a duet with the suspended thrumming of the blood cell semi tractor-trailers. Pound beep hum finishing sentences, finishing airs, finishing times. No boy, no hotdog, no water in sight, Job dozed off again.
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2003 A Beautiful Woman Excerpt – Pounding
I was walking down the street when the pounding started, out of a glistening new car door, with animal shapes and shadows, sizes. It wouldn’t have to poke through, for that was the end of it right there, a brand new car, yellow and orange with fresh fabricated sheen. I’m supposed to think. Caught in this odd verbiage of reality. Caught in this old. Caught out in the cold. I caught hold. I coughed and bowled over. I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in these feet on the ground. I don’t believe in the ground. I do live in the ground. I grind up my living. That’s when the pounding started, like a box hammer. There’s no such thing as a box hammer. What am I talking about. Why are you listening to this. What time is it. Has anyone seen my car. Has anyone seen my car. Has anyone seen inside of my ears. Onside of there, it’s bizarre, it is. Inside of there I meant to say. There’s no stuttering when I’m writing. There’s no stuttering in movies. Writing is like movies. Outside of there, it’s boring. My ear, I mean. I meant I was talking about my ear. Would everybody just shut up. What the fuck am I doing. It doesn’t make a difference if you listen. It doesn’t make a difference that you’re here. Why not have another drink. Is it something new you’re going to hear. No, I am what the fuck are you doing. Why not have another doing. What I’m trying to say is, what decision isn’t spiritual you fuckers, yeah you, you dumb fuckers. Oh but what if we’re all dumb fuckers, does that make it better, and so everything would be relative to how good, or bad of a dumb fucker you were, and so we could call it something else, like a pleasantly functioning and self aware human being. Oh but what if we’re all pleasantly functioning and self aware human beings, does that make it worse, and so everything would be relative to how good, or bad of a pleasantly functioning and self aware human being you were, and so we could call it something else, like a dumb fucker, yeah you, you dumb fuckers, What I’m trying to say is, what decision isn’t spiritual you fuckers, said the boy to Job, but it was all telepathic and transmitted through the boy’s wide, frightened and staring eyes.
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