TRYING TO FIND THE WORDS TO DESCRIBE THIS LANDSCAPE WITHOUT BEING DISRESPECTFUL, 2012

(Paper, pen, lady, landscape)

Bob Dylan owns more things in this picture than God can count, including all the valley down below, and all the underwear worn by Eugenia, and by me. Also, he’s my dad. And his real name is not Bob Dylan, but, Mangel Mangelisa de Bowlingalleyia. Listen. Shit. Don’t freak out at me. I’m just the messenger, man. I don’t want all this to be true any more than anyone else—but it is, and freaking out is not going to make it any better. It’s just going to make it louder. Now chill out and let’s try and be adults here.

PEOPLE TRYING TO HELP, 2012

(Wood and paint, like 24”x24” or so)

I think it’s hard to know where to start sometimes. But you want to start! All you ever wanted to do was to start! I can’t help with this at all. If I could help with this, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be traveling the country, giving expensive lectures and laying hands on crippled people. To heal everyone is my goal.

TRUE STORY, 2012

(Ripped up Safeway bag, pen, also on a chair)

I drew this after seeing it in real life, on the freeway, on my way to Los Angeles, in my first lawfully rented car, on my way to spend time peeling eggs with several women and a dog in a trailer and to look at homophobic Brazilian-American men jump over other people for money. Everything about this is real.

ANOTHER PAINTING ON A CHAIR, 2012

(Painting on a chair)

This is a painting on a chair. I think it’s a self-portrait. How do I look.

LOOKING FOR LOVE IN A HOPELESS PLACE, 90210

(Paint and paper on a chair)

Check out my moves.

I mean—what I’m trying to say is—I went out to the club recently. In the club, or near it, I learned a lot about how to lift a guy up and flip him. You see, most guys are right-legged—right-handed, really, and so (according to the wasted man) they are also right-legged. So, if you grab any guy by the right leg and lift hard, he’ll flip. Then you kick him in the head a few times and then you call it a night. I mean, call it an “80’s Night.”

MY MISTAKES, 2012

(12x18, watercolor, fire)

Everyone else has already learned enough from my mistakes. I want to start cashing in on that shit.

FRIDAY, 2012

(12x18, watercolors)

This would be funny if I could stop doing it.

GLUE, 2012

(12x18, watercolor on paper)

Sometimes your dreams are wrong, and that’s okay.

YOUR SUDDEN GOOD LOOKS, 2012

(12x18 watercolor on fancy paper)

Oh! Your good looks came out of a thick thicket—wild!—and slapped me upside the head and said, “Follow me, follow me—” and so I followed. And it was shady and hot down there by the river. There were fish in the river, one might reasonably guess, and plants and little specks of gold. The river reflected tiger striped white light in your eyes and all over you, like a pool does—but mostly it was the back of your neck I followed. It was sweat-glinted and smudged. Your strong legs were brown in brown boots. Your footing was mostly sure.

Maybe it was miles, under prickly brush and over slippery rocks before we came salty and scratched up to a swimming hole I never seen before in all my years as an elf, down here in these woods I call home. And we drank beers that were just somehow there, I think—or did you bring them—you must have brought them, and we swung on the rope swing.

You swam out to where it was too deep to touch, and concentrated on not sinking. Arching your arms around in wide circles, kicking your legs. You were an enthusiastic swimmer.

I lay down on the steep sandy shore and watched your wet hair fan out around you in the black water and thought, “I never want to leave this place.” And your fat lips smiled, and your clear eyes smiled, and your arms arched in a wide circle, and your legs kicked, and I laughed and I blinked, and I turned into a tree.

YOU IN FLAMES, 2012

(6x9, ink and paper)

We tried to save you! We did! We were scared, and we were endangered—not like you, but maybe “endangered” is not what you are when you’re on fire. You’re beyond that at that point. Anyway, we all got together, and crossed ourselves elaborately, and said prayers and threw water on you, and stopped you and dropped you and rolled you—and you were like, “Okay, okay! Now you’re just trying to soak me and roll me around! I’m good, guys!”  And when I tell stories to my new friends about you, this is usually going to be the one I lead off with.