In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, June 9, 2019

25 or 6 to 4

Burdock 70 x 50 x 1.8 cm - acrylic on canvas


We find ourselves immersed
in a Bertolucci movie in which
a gathering of affluent bohemians
seem to be going slightly out of their minds.
I don’t know if it’s the weather.
Or if there’s a philosophy behind it all.
But something’s a little off.
A hot summer day near Siena;
Liv Tyler baring her breasts for the artist
who, it will later become evident, is her father.
He works on paper in a swirl of black crayon.
A little girl is beating an olive tree
with a stick, chanting, “take that and that and that…”
Two or three other people
look as if they might strip naked any
moment then recite their favorite obsessions—
a light in their eyes that shouldn’t be there—
on this afternoon numinous with heat. Sweet n’ sour
tangle of grasses and wild flowers.  A whiff
of vineyards, and pot smoke from the front porch.

In villages on the Rhine as Carnival starts up
bands of women roam the streets
with scissors in their hands
hunting down men whose
neck ties they cut off. I had never thought
of neck ties as beautiful before. I guess you
have to lose something silk with stripes or paisley
with tiny fleur-de-lis worked into the pattern
for such a realization to hit you. These days
I keep the survivors zipped up in an old gym bag.
Nice to know they’re still there if I ever need them. 

Sunday, May 5, 2019

Motivational Speaker

In Spring I wear Pink 20 x 50 x 2 cm acrylic/charcoal on canvas


A chain gang of ducks digging their way
through darkening blue. Little thumb prints
of red on the horizon. Cold Baltic Sea beneath them.
Are ducks too busy fleeing buckshot
to take five? They seem to be constantly    
swerving away from rest in peace.
Or are they fleeing nothing but the urge to do nothing?
No slackers in this squadron.
Suppose they’re on a flight as useless as
frescoes in a dilapidated palace in Palermo  
or this poem for that matter…or any art
but literally over-the-top
of the world we’re looking at, walking through,
pushing some kind of feathered agenda
up there on their own just for the hell of it.
Like teenage boys on Friday nights way back when
driving up and down Mt. Diablo Blvd.,
listening to Hotel California and Dust In The Wind
eying Mustangs and Camaros with nowhere to go.

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Life is not for the Faint of Heart

Life is not for the Faint of Heart 50 x 50 cm mixed media on canvas


                                     You can pay all you want. Death’s in no hurry.      

I take vitamins, lots of them, and exercise
with a devotion I can only call metaphysical.
I watch my diet as if it were an addictive series.
A soap opera about salt intake, blood pressure, fiber.
Every couple of months when I was rich
someone who called himself “Sergei Sharapova”—
obviously not related to tennis player
Maria Sharapova who used to emit
orgasmic grunts, if you remember,
each time a ball hit her racket
or smacked against a long brown thigh—
would drop by and we would knock back
a couple of drinks, smoke from the peace pipe,
laugh recklessly, confess guardedly, then I would
hand him a check for a few thousand, a true moment of truth.
Without fail he would say, “Later, dude,” then slip out
the back door. A move he’s often made. With many.
Sometimes he was a girl, with a filthy laugh. She didn’t play tennis.  

Sunday, March 17, 2019


Mars, May 19 acrylic on canvas board 60 x 50 cm / 23.6 x 19.7 in


The first time I saw Greece
my nose started twitching. Didn’t stop.
It was sunlight on pale luminous
pines that did it the first time.
A tangy, sappy fragrance. This was on
the pretty if minor island of Poros—
the way a good looking jump shot
is minor or extra deep dimples
are nice but in no way significant—
sometimes grilled meat in the alleyways
below the Acropolis did the trick.
The reek of goats in Galatas too.  
I felt like my senses were taking in
every bush tree flower face rush
of surf at three am, scent of ouzo on the Metro.
The pallid face of a particular bar maid was
a vision of the Underworld. And one
dusty, odorous afternoon in Athens I saw Beauty
working in a shop. I stepped inside stepping
into the hooves and skin of something not me.
The woman in a cream-colored tank top
didn’t make me think of her
olive green eyes and faintly
musk-inspired perfume
nor even of her thick black eyelashes
or the profundity of her hips
but of the lucky servant whose job it was to polish her
cheekbones and shoulders that very morning
then released her into the city where one
glance turned me into a snouted 
four-legged beast grunting in the corner.


Sunday, March 10, 2019

Miro's Game

Miro's Spiel/Miro's Game 29 x 29 cm acryl on raw canvas


A couple hundred years
after Jesus was sacrificed
his followers, dressed
in black robes, stinking
to high heaven, faces wooly
with coarse hair, smashed the noses,
breasts and penises of classical
statuary, carving crosses on the calm marble foreheads
of Apollo and Aphrodite. Stinking Taliban
bearded like fundamentalist hipsters
blowing up graceful representations
of Buddha in some outback of Hindu Kush,
leaving only shit and garbage in their wake.
The Islamic State spreading its thuggish
theater of pious cruelty,
bulldozing and hammering into dust the
unutterable elegance of Palmyra. Now my beautiful end game
is that all of these ungodly freaks
square-off in a sealed-up arena just before time begins
armed with their cudgels and their jackhammers
and sticks of dynamite, and throw in a horde of West Bank Zealots
and pro-gun lobbyists, and have them all go after each other
with the ferocity of hyenas rending the remains
of a young antelope. Polluted blood rises to the rafters.
Who do I think would win, you ask? Why, honey, you and I would win.