Saturday, August 4, 2012

project images of "Xenomorphine"

Original Stepcover, Step6: Six Martyr Place (2011)

Oritinal Stepcover, Step5: A Union of Storms (2011)

Original Stepcover, Step4: Orientation (2011)

V2, original cover, 2009

Original Cover, 2009

xenomorphous motto

Be Prepared.

That's the motto of the Boy Scouts.

"Be prepared for what?" someone once asked Baden-Powell, the founder of Scouting,

"Why, for any old thing." said Baden-Powell.

The training you receive in your troop will help you  live up to the Scout motto. When someone has an accident, you are prepared because of your first aid instruction. Because of lifesaving practice, you might be able to save a nonswimmer who has fallen into deep water.

But Baden-Powell wasn't thinking just of being ready for emergencies. His idea was that all Scouts should prepare themselves to become productive citizens and to give happiness to other people. He wanted each Scout to be ready in mind and body for any struggles, and to meet with a strong heart whatever challenges might lie ahead.

Be prepared for life - to live happily and without regret, knowing that you have done your best. That's what the Scout motto means.

from "Be Prepared: The Motto of the Boy Scouts of America"
Excerpted from page 54, Boy Scout Handbook, 11th ed,
(#33105), copyright 1998 by BSA, ISBN 0-8395-3105-2

patient antithesis

from "patient antithesis"
step four: orientation
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

we'll never cross this
chasm that has cracked
between us
we'll never bridge the
canyon that has expanded
our distance

i have the strength
to see this through
to hold the ropes
while collapse

in opposition we stand
in nothing do we trust
we know it would come to this
patient antithesis


step four: orientation
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

he who isn't true
to whom he could

is rotten and
from seedy core to

its sick nectar
none but poison
now, its gentle
and succulent flesh
withered and

fallen far from
deciduous limbs;
swollen heart
succumbing to
and original

beware the fruit
appetizing and sweet
spare the sooth,
deny and retreat
consume the flower,
tissue, tendons and all
swallow the carpels
and the myth's bitter

its slick nectar
fully assimilated
now, its acidic
and divisive message
caustic and

sermonella poisoning

I went to use the restroom at a coffee shop and found a three-page, hand-written, photocopied "sermon" on the urinal.  This is a tweaked synthesis and summary of that rambling message, which reflects much of how I feel about the "genuity" and pure human "goodness" of scripture... (*note the sarcasm*); details have been changed to affect the innocent, other countless souls that may have contemplated and been corrupted by the "sermon on the urinal".

and lo the urinal spoke
of scrypture:

all we, like sheep,
have gone astray
we have turned everyone to his own way;
and the lawed hath laid on him
the iniquity of us all;
for there is not a just man upon the earth,
that doeth good, and sinneth not;
for all have sinned and come short of the glory
of the dog; for the wages of sin is death,
but the gift of the dog is
eternal life through (blank) our lawed;
to declare, i say, at this time his righteous
mess, that he might be just, and the justifier
of him which believeth in (blank);
and it is appointed unto men once to die,
but after this the judgment;
the (blank) is not slack concerning his promise,
as some men count slackness; but it is long-
suffering to us-ward, not willing that any should
perish, but that all should come to repentance;
and whosoever was not found written in the
book of life
was cast into the lake of fire;
but (blank) commandeth his love toward us,
in that, while we were yet sinners, (blank)
died for us.

(blank) sayeth unto him, I am the way,
the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto
the failure, but me;
neither is there salvation in any other:
for there is none other name under
given among men, whereby we must be saved;
wherefore, he is able also to save them to the uttermost
that come unto the dog by (blank) seeing he ever
liveth to make intercession for them;
for by grace are ye saved through fealth;
and that not of yourselves:
it is the gift of the dog;
not of works, lest any man should boast
for whosoever shall call upon the name
of the lawed shall be saved;

for the dog so loved the world,
that he gave his only begotten sun,
that whosoever believeth
in him should not perish,
but have everlasting
he that believeth in the sun hath
everlasting life;
and he that believeth not
in the sun
shall not see life,
but the wrath of the dog
abideth on him;
that if thou shalt confess
with thy mouth the lawed (blank),
and shalt believe in
thine heart that the dog
hath raised him from
the dead,
thou shalt be saved;

verily, verily, I say unto you
he that heareth my word,
and believeth in him
that sent me, hath everlasting life
and shall not come into condemnation,
but is passed from death
unto life;
but as many as recieved him,
to them gave he power to become
the suns of the dog,
even to them that believe in his name;
how that the lawed died for our sins
according to the scryptures;
and that he was buried,
and that he rose again
on the third day, according to the

but, after that, the kindness and love
of the dog, our failure, toward man
appeared, not by words of righteous
mess which we have done,
but according to his mercy
he saved us, by the washing of regeneration,
and renewing of the wholly virus;
which he shed on us abundantly through
(blank) our failure; that
being justified by his grace,
we should be made heirs according
to the hope of eternal life;
and the times of this ignorance
the dog winked at;
but now commandeth all men everywhere
to rep(res)ent because he hath appointed
a day, in which he will judge
the world in righteous
mess by that man whom
he ordained;
where of he hath given assurance unto all men,
in that he raised him from the

if you want to be saved from the penalty
of your sin, to be forgiven by the dog,
to become the dog's righteous, cleansed child,
and have life now with the dog
and internal life with the dog,
you can pray the following
prayer, sincerely. salvation is
a free gift the dog offers
to everyone;

(blank), I admit that I am a sinner.
I know that I cannot save myself.
I rep(res)ent of my sin and put my fealth
in the blood that you, (blank), shed
(on the cross and in crusades) for me.
you can declare me forgiven, justified.
I except you as my failure and lawed
and thank you
for dying for me
forgiving me of all my sin
past, present and future
and thank you
for saving me.
take control of the throne
of my life and make me the kind
of person you want me to be.

(blank), you are the dog,
at one with the failure and
wholly infectious

and all I wanted to do
was take a piss

echoes of the empty hallways

the acoustics
of this corridor
are beyond
hollow and hellish
with no air to

He spent his night bouncing from bar to bar, seeing various shows and checking in with plastic people in the dim glow of strobe and neon. No one would have suspected what was to happen in the coming hours. His head was a depressed tempest. In the haze of early morning, he emptied three bottles of sleeping pills, arranged them chaotically in a blue pile on a white plate, stood the bottles dramatically on the plate, forcing the mass of little blue bullets into a forward station.

And then he took a picture. Content with his work, he posted the picture over a common social media site.  At the time, I'm sure it was a cryptic and curious shot to his followers and fans.

"This is how the end begins", he wrote as the caption.

Some hours later, he was found passed out in his apartment. He was pronounced dead, left to wander the empty hallways of the great unknown.  All that he was, all that he created, all that he intended, washed away by a flood of sleep and endless silence.

In time, he will be dearly remembered by few, unfortunately forgotten by many, his legacy left to wither in the corrosive winds of tomorrow.

He left a body of work to represent himself, a global network of respectful fans to mourn the passing of his flesh. He exited with a sad, cryptic and powerful cry down the corridor of his life, one final, primal scream to carry his memory across the ages and spaces and hearts, a voice self-silenced too soon, artistic potential surrendered to the grand escape.

Few probably know why he did what he did. I surely don't. I choose to not know, to accept that he felt his exit necessary and to appreciate the echoes he left behind. I understand this is the way of the creator--some stars burn out of light and life fast and furious; others have enough internal combustion to power through endless cycles of inflation and deflation, expansion and recession, life and death.

The cerulean image of the plate and the pills is still burned in my mind, his curt exit epitaph still reverberating in my soul. That synthetic array is the lasting image I have of him, but his sound will always echo throughout the empty hallways of this creative chamber, providing aural purpose to the king of these virtually impossible dreams.

Lightspeed, Jamie.


Like most other tattoo enthusiasts, I started my road with a bad ink choice. In 2001 and only a couple months after my divorce, I walked into a tattoo shop in La Crosse and took the plunge. I didn't do much research on what I wanted.  I simply walked into the shop, with the burning desire to commemorate this point in my life.

The start of the darker road, the schism between who I was and who I was becoming. Diagnosed with two chronic health conditions only one year earlier, my life had completely unraveled. First it was my health, then my job, then my love, my marriage, my condo, my friends... and everything I knew as familiar.  In one year following my prognosis, I was single, broke and living alone in a new, cursed world.

I felt like a ghost--physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And, thus, I adopted the nickname. It seemed to fit. Typically, people don't assign themselves their own monickers. Friends or family bequeath such labels upon you. But, in this case, I felt like the incorporeal dead.  Non-present. Translucent and disconnected.

The wires couldn't be reconnected to life, not in the common means.  In that darkness, someone else awoke.  It was necessary to face the disassociation and make it part of me.

"Ghost" became a nickname.  And not just a name, but a way of existence. In the tattoo parlor in La Crosse, I found an Oriental Kanji which was labeled "Ghost", and signed up for the permanent branding. The strokes of the kanji are shaped in such a way that it looks like the numbers "47". To this day, I haven't met a single person that can validate that the image means "Ghost"; in fact, the image now exists more as a deathmark, or a memory imprint, than an accurate statement from another language.

At the time, I couldn't know prophetic it could be. 11 years later, the "ghost" has become a dominant part of me, the artist that has always slumbered within, made to mute by unsupportive hands, awakened by dissonance and the coalescing of metaphysical voices. All that remains of the first tatt is the echo of a number, and translucent identity, measured by rate of fade, rather than age of erasure.

All that's left is 47--timeclock or coincidence, the answer draws closer with every dying day, and with every new image of recognition branded upon my flesh, with every bruise on the armor of this invisible sheath, this echo of who I used to be. Always present. Always reminding.