well, you know that i like making books.  some of you may remember my poetry book i put together and handmade last fall for my art show.  well, i’m in the mood again.  this time, though, i’m going to make one poem into a whole book.  it’s really interesting how i can play around with timing and rhythm by moving stuff around on the page.  putting each line on a page, and sometimes even one word on a page.  i’ve already put a rough sketch of the book together.  i’m going to fill it with block printing again.  i’m not exactly sure how i’m going to execute the actual poem, though.  the way i want it set up, i can’t just type and print it.  i need to figure it out.  i’ve got some ideas, and some people i can ask for help.  i’m honestly considering printing the poem once, cutting and pasting into a blank book (actually cutting with scissors and pasting with glue or tape), and running copies.  kind of an old-school underground running copies of punk rock show poster kind of thing.  we’ll see.

i think i posted the poem.  effortless was the working title.  matt specht is my working title.

spring 2006

ink and acrylic 30″ x 22″

one of my favorites to date.  i heard once that paintings are like songs; you never play a song right the first time.  i tried this piece at least fifty times befoer i got it right.  it began as a small 14″ x 11″ painting with a blue background and yellow figures.

etude in red

fall 2007

acrylic 48″ x 47″

asterius news

be pollock for a minute

idea tree studio web design

word riot

the bathroom

david tomaloff

716 fine art gallery

i don’t have the words
my hands lead the way
it’s so inappropriate
smiling this way

be my drama
my mantra
the effort just shy of
enough to be worthy
of this little lie

my efforts precede me
wasted away
those nights with those women
with nothing to say

sit next to me
smile with me
keep it all light
pretend that it is
when we know it’s not right

all i want is one words from you:
master,
                slave,
lover,
                equal,
beautiful,

grave

“pull over.  i’m gonna puke,” she said.
i pulled over.
“turn off the lights,” she said.
i turned off the lights.
she got out.
i watched her in the mirror on the passenger’s side door.  she bent over at the waist and was completely still for 2 ½ songs.  her ass was perfectly situated in the center of the mirror.
“that’d make a great shot in a movie,” i thought.
she got back in.
“i’m sorry.  i’m such a dumbass.  i’m never drinking again,” she said. 

she always tells me about the plans she’s got
        for tomorrow,
                but when i ask her what she did
                        today,
                                she always says, “nothin’.” 

i keep telling my friends
i’m gonna break up with her

tomorrow

originally published in Word Riot

i wanna roll your hair and smoke it

lick your sweaty armpit clean

your mouth’s my respirator

because of it i breathe

let me sing you lullabies

bring you breakfast in bed

introduce you to my mother

watch the packers with your dad

i fucking hate the packers

but i’d watch them for you

hold your hair back when you vomit

and clean your stinky poo

i’d write you endless shitty poems

and every word would be true

if you’re gonna make it through this poem,
you’ve got to remember
my grandfather’s mantra for these types of situations:
if it doesn’t scare the cows, who cares? 

it doesn’t feel like
i’ve been awake this long. 

if you’re gonna make it through this poem,
make sure you use only
OSHA-approved safety measures,
because we have gone one hundred eighty one poems
accident-free
and management has offered a bonus
if we surpass the previous record.

it doesn’t feel like
i’m as sick as i am.

if you don’t think you’re gonna make it through this poem,
let me draw you a map
with the sightseeing highlights highlighted
and the reasoning
stuffed in between every  line.
as long as you consume this package
before the expiration date printed on my birth certificate,
you can enjoy all the freshness,
complete restoration of every memory you’ve ever had,
and not one motherfucking calorie.

it doesn’t feel like
i’m in this much pain.

if you’ve made it this far,
perhaps you’ll humor me a bit longer, if it pleases the court.
it’s humorous to me that you’re taking this
like big boys and girls
with a sneaking suspicion
this tastes too good
to be good for you.

if i can’t feel it,
you can’t prove it.

if you think you’ve made it through this poem,
you haven’t made it
in god’s own image.
imagine all the cows
with the bejesus and the shit scared deafeningly out of them. 

the odds were always against you:
no one will make it out of this poem alive.