i really like this guy's style...the way he mixes hip-hop symbols with fantasy and pop culture references. he inserts himself into each of his pieces as the red outlined smiley face.

the markers and colored pencils make me think of handheld digital video cameras...

i'm drawn to art like this that feels shaky, yet driven...sophisticated in theory, yet with a gritty...and mistakeprone vibe--

but without the actual mistakes--

just like blogs.

just like me.

you see i'm the type of person who clumsily knocks something over only to make a graceful dive and catch it in the nick of time. im wearing my glove again and a lot of band aids, all over my body, just to show you how vulnerable i am. i play the Casanova and i play the fool. i dream that i'm the ACID ZAR and then i wake up stone cold sober.

i have a limp and so i walk with a swagger.

im light with the words and heavy in the eyes.

years of narcotic abuse ensures that the left side of my brain doesn't always know what the right side is doing.

(if i ran a red hot wire down the middle of your head you might know what i mean)

at any minute it's like, i could be wrong, i could be right

(i could be black, i could be white)

but in my heart everything makes perfect sense...

in my heart i never mean to hurt anyone...in my heart i find the time to change the sheets for the next girl, another friend who's come over to my bed to forget about the killer waves and the president and the homeless people covered in blue tarp on the church steps. she's kissing the bruises on my knees, causing her own legs to hang off the bottom of the bed, where she nearly knocks over my TV with the DVD player stacked precariously on top.

"shit, sorry," she says.

"don't worry about it, " i tell her. "i was better off when i didn't have a TV."

"oh, yeah? then why'd you buy a new one?"

"I didn't," i say... "someone gave it to me."

"wow," she says, "for xmas?"

"no, it was before that..." i say, my face reddening as i realize i haven't called the girl who brought it by.

"it was for...no reason, just one of those things," i say.

"hmmm, i see," she says, playfully suspicious as she pulls herself up to my chest. she separates my hands that are folded there and gently tugs at the glove covering the right one.

"what are you doing," i say.

"i want to see your scars," she says.

i help her with the snap.

she stares at my naked hand with the kind of profound interest I usually only get from doctors. then she gently runs her fingers over my slender wrist, then the back of hand, making small concentric circles that slowly dip lower and lower towards the knuckles...

the room is quiet. down on the street two dogs are fighting like they're going to tear each other apart.

finally, her fingers brush gently over the stumps.

i jerk my hand back.

"what is it?" she says, her voice filled with alarm.

"does it hurt to touch?"

"no," i say, tilting my head to make my bangs fall and cover my eyes.

"it tickles."


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