In Dolan’s Colon (that rhymes) – Artiste Bill Donohue at Catholic League Displays his “Obama in Feces” Decorative Artwork

Eyes reading a telepromter? - Bill Donohue - The Catholic League

Bill Donohue is like a pit bull. He won’t give it up in terms of being an unrecognized artistic genius having to muck about with the likes of Archbishop Dolan and Rupert Murdoch over at Fox News.

I did not know that the Santorum crowd, the Pink Palace crowd in the NewYork archdiocese like to play with “brown” Play-Doh and call it art.  

I want Bill Donohue’s job. And I won’t have Yahoo as my homepage in the office like Bill – Yahoo! - OMG!

$400,000 a year to sit around an executive suite with a view of Central Park and fantasize about black people in their own feces as the new mean spirited Catholic League / Cardinal Dolan sponsored $$$ vvision of art.  LOL. LMAO.  

Gee Bill, Nostalgia. Now I understand the “New Evangelization” completely.

I haven’t had so much fun with nostalgic memories since I was two and playing with my own feces that fell out of one of those old fashioned cloth diapers that my mother had to recycle in the wash.

Catch 3:09 – 3:59 of video above to listen to a grown man whine about decorative art.  Old decorative art.

BTW the way Cardinal Dolan, I am a starving poet.  Send me some grant money. Pleese!

Here is a sample of my work:

Santorum’s Best – a poem

There once was a cemetery

Crook from Milwaukee Nantucket

Who had a drunk stooge

Who could only flunck(y) it

In life. …

But when it came to his art

The sterling part, the secret

Was found obviously hidden

In his eyes, stars, in wide stance

on a toilet seat perhaps

And (or) in Dolan’s colon.

Comes in Vegan and Non-Vegan shades of Brown - made special for Artists

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Gina Rinehart is so Rich and so Fat She wants Australia for Lunch – Princess of Woop Woop - worth $30 Billion

Gina Rinehart - Princess of Woop Woop in Oz

Once again it is those lazy poor people living off the system who make life so miserable for the very RICH.  Princess of Woop Woop Land in Australia Gina Rinehart thinks $15.96 minimum wage Austalian, $1.029 to $1.00 American rate, is a burden for her company to pay for a working man to support his family for his first 38 hours of labor. 

She is jealous that Americans only get $7.25 minimum wage in the United States and wants a similar deal for workers in Oz.

What a fucking greedy pig! Go buy a bottle of shampoo darling and a bar of soap too I think while you are at it as well.

Oh dear.  Where is the catsup mate? I want to eat Australia for lunch! Same as the Koch Brothers are already munching on America’s assets.

Australian mining tycoon Gina Rinehart, the richest woman in the world (yes, richer even than Christy Walton) must think she’s some kind of Dagny Taggart OR SOMETHING. Rinehart penned an offensive editorial column in a mining industry magazine that’s being widely condemned in Australia. Considering that she owns much of the media there, and undoubtedly many a politician, too, that seems significant.

Rinehart’s fortune is estimated to be in the range of $30 billion and apparently the mining heiress thinks those drunken shrimp-on-the-barbie poors are just jealous of people like her and her rich friends. During a month when Rinehart is actively engaged in petitioning the government to lower the minimum wage and slash taxes on the wealthy, her timing couldn’t be worse.

Setting aside the fact that it’s patently ridiculous that a single family could be allowed to make that kind of money by mining a natural (and therefore national) resource like iron ore out of the ground, Rinehart inherited her fucking money in the first place (Just like Francisco d’Anconia inherited his copper mines in Atlas Shrugged, eh? And remind me again how Dagny Taggart came to be running Taggart Transcontinental? Ah, yes, through an accident of birth!) Via Raw Story:

“There is no monopoly on becoming a millionaire. If you’re jealous of those with more money, don’t just sit there and complain. Do something to make more money yourself — spend less time drinking or smoking and socialising, and more time working. Become one of those people who work hard, invest and build, and at the same time create employment and opportunities for others”

Rinehart blamed what she described as “socialist”, anti-business policies for the plight of Australia’s poor, urging the government to lower the minimum wage, as well as taxes, unless it wanted to end up like Greece.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minimum_wage_law

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Secular Saint - William Blake

To see a world in a Grain of Sand,
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

I am not certain what to say about William Blake as poet, painter, engraver and printmaker. He was in his own league in his lifetime 1757-1827, with idiosyncratic views, on everything from nature to religion. His lack of formal education did not stop his self-education from reading all his life. From a long line of dissenters, he was for the most part pro-bible and anti-Church of England.

It is perhaps because he did not have a formal educated cookie cutter view of the world, that he was able to expand and populate his own personal universe with things of his own importance – interpretation of the classics, religion, words and art.

I periodically run into him in an arts section of a newspaper announcing this or that exhibit. You are always bound to see a new picture book published of his curious etchings and then there is his poetry for which his fame truly lives on.

He seems to have one foot in the past. His etchings were thought by many to be old fashioned, same as those of his original teacher under whom he was an apprentice. He made a fairly good living for most of the stretch of his life. You would perhaps have to classify him as rising but modest middle class in that aristocratic hierarchy of British Pre-Victorian importance and view of the day.

He does not quite fit in with the Romanticism of the time. Though he lived as a contemporary of the Enlightenment, he no doubt had strong pro views on the American and French Revolutions, his opinions remained in the background of classical themes. His real world, lived most of his life, in a stinking crowded ever-growing London.

As I child he learned to draw from stone and plaster classical statues as subject matter. In fact, looking at some of his later works I see a movement and flow that rises right up out of classical scenes not unlike the friezes of the Parthenon that he would not have been familiar with.

What holds the body of Blake’s work together is his view of the world and no one else’s view. What he saw as a child, aged ten, in light reflecting in a tree were perhaps angels as he claimed or the delusions of a child in full imagination of self within his own small secure turf, a private piece of the universe. The words of his poetry or his religious beliefs are condiments like salt and pepper that flavor all the rest of the world’s basic parts of belief and language.

I see some of his art works as being ultra-modern or even having a strong touch of Art-Deco in them from the early twentieth century. He surely captured the classical theme and also too with his spin of Biblical and Christian myth. The experts are still dissecting and reconstructing their own spin on the spins of this or that decade ever since his demise. They did not give him much recognition in his lifetime. His fame is born of human hindsight. That and the commodity equation of the value of his works.

He left no diaries. His biographers dig through public records and pinpoint him on a historical timeline for a few brief seconds out of every year he lived. The rest is speculation, conjecture and third party gossip. Such is life. He lived grandly of mind within the realm of his life and only shards of that full life of an artist remain alive in the energy and forms of surviving work.

Because he disliked and distrusted religious dogma and stuck with a kind of cultural Christian adherence on the fringes of that once great religion, I dub him as a Secular Saint in the This Cultural Christian’s Hall of Fame.





The words to his poem Jerusalem are part the unofficial national anthem of England sung at many sporting events.

the great dark

A great dark bird (B-1)
circles above.

It is hard to ignore as I
approach and park, then go
do a late day routine.

Lines in the desert seem
more crisply defined with
clear blue sky overhead.

Black silhouette
against electric blue
is hard to miss.

Driving here everyday sees
training flights all the time
as they round the city.

Oddly comfortable,
a nation’s ready defense
against who or what
I sometimes wonder.

My errand is done.

The image returns as
I start up the car and
look through the windshield.

The great dark bird
continues to fly.

It casts large shadows
while it coasts on solar winds
slowly maneuvering near
its unseen home mountain
(Davis Monthan Air Force Base).

This while four young chicks,
training jets in standard gray,
(not the usual A-10’s)
keep careful speed and distance
to the mother bird.

This all, with nearby
afternoon football play
in a still green autumn park.

Long shadows, fading sun.
A warmth of Sol on the face.

Driving away from the park
and daycare retrieval
I notice (and am part of)...

The great dark’s spread
of larger wings,
casting its personal shadow
on us, my son and me,
as it seemingly glides to conquer
near ground in landing.
over a house as horizon line.

Momentary illusion, partaking
interrupted by reality and
a sobering thought.

The cost overruns had
nothing to due with grace
or beauty.

Haunting end day images
mix with Oppenheimer’s
Hindu recitation. – echo
“ I am become death...
...a shatterer...”

(be not death! I reply)

Where there is life, there is God.

Power. Power.
A dropped egg?

Potential death.
There or here?

Hopeful design
never (a prayer)
to be fulfilled.


(11-29-95, Tucson)
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Dreams and Cosmic Flows

-
A flutter of eyelids,
ah, a quick path to sleep.
How long until, if at all, to
dreams and cosmic flows?
(Does one have the soul
of an artist?)
-
The canvas of night unravels
in less than predicable or
perfect forms.
-
Dreams. -
Cosmic flows.
What is the answer
to my - ?
I forget the questions.
-
Oh boy, here comes the ride.
The flow of brushstrokes
and sculpture's clay shape
a new beauty.
-
Faces of people are
seen and unseen.
-
Past residents of earth depart
while future friends assemble.
Memory is a tricky thing
in sorting out which is which.
-
Familiar faces blend with
faces masked.
Do I, did I, know, this,
these other people?
-
While a favorite time
can paint a backdrop
of night or day,
nothing seems focused
or even noticed.
-
Strange words. Noises.
Conversations repeat.
Am I hard of hearing?
Oh boy, a loop.
A loop repeats cosmic
messages?
-
Flow and freedom from care.
One's daytime, earthbound spirit
must soar while dreaming.
The energy flows.
Dreams are such wondrous things
most times,
almost like magic.
-
Colors do not greatly matter,
nor temperature,
so much as textures,
smooth walls, rough touch
faint adobe hues,
can sometimes frame
my dream picture.
-
Do I dream in black and white?
-
Noises. Conversations
with eloquent people,
those with whom I
might want to meet.
They are just like me
perhaps.
-
Is their spirit on furlough too,
in a dream as well?
Have our paths in essence
really crossed the way?
-
Is there a mission? A
purpose to this dream -
any dream?
-
Does the mind truly
wake not to another
but to true reality?
-
The mind does wander
besides wonder.
-
Is daytime - awakeness -
true reality or
the reality in another
realm of perceptions
full blown, of, from
cosmic connections?
-
Questions later, though
rarely during the process,
of the personal artform known
as this, the (my) dream?
-
All too soon as a favored niche
in repose is found,
all too soon the muse wears off.
Stardust, dreams, whatever
are shaken off with eyes
fluttering and blinking
into focus.
-
What is at hand is at hand.
Dreams or waking
all seem to fit perfectly
as they occur
and part of some
present and perfect now.

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