Fraught with What's Wrought

Grates Mark the Spot

Buried Treasure: Call Before You Dig

The Shelf Holds My Interests

These are drawings I made between a few trips I made this past year to help my parents move and sell the house I grew up in. I salvaged a few forgotten belongings but these indecipherable scrawlings are largely devoted to reflections on a handful of objects that I've been carting around since childhood. Bidding this home farewell, put me into meditative high gear. That's what's happening here.

What's there to know about it? Wood, wrought iron, joinery, reappropriation of salvaged building materials: those materials and compulsions were synthesized into an idiosyncratic stew by the men in my family: my dad especially--but my grandfather and brother too, no doubt.

Work Gloves Work

Know It When You Hear It

A Simple Ass

Omaha Bodies, Rub the Lamp

The Wayback Machine Is Hollow

Lies Safe and Sound

I'm posting a number of drawings from a booklet I made a few years ago titled The Airwaves Goodbye.  It contains a number of short works that orbit around the production and reception of recorded music. Those themes are the veneer, anyway. It is probably more accurate to say they're surrogates for reflecting on the differences between having one's head in the studio and having it elsewhere, out in the open. If that's too abstract, I'm happy to consider these as a collection of poems for roadies, and sound engineers. Rock and Roll's support staff need poems just like everyone else.