jim christ

 


babysitter smiles simile

(memories about a surrogate mother)

Connie
was her name.

she took deep looks and talked
gently no matter what we did.

said something like,
"if you were older" and

stirred me without a clue
to what that was moving

me. somewhere years later
I'd remember and forget what

wasn't much more than wakings.
the jigsaws of retrospect take shape,

don't they? we see clearly where we are
not now and then touch what is, and revere

the roulette that bounces now. to grasp too firmly
is mistake, but to reach forever, to reach forever is love.
we
ring
on like
half a
bell.

 

between those shadows

you've become part of my mind,
clicking those keys at me.
you're pouring from my CRT
and into me, and I to you,
back and forth on the waves;
adrift on this tron sea of e.

the tides through this net move with minds,
from shining here to shining there,
riding in on electrons dancing,
through the spam and the scams and
the prancing of shadows that chase us.
from the cliffs of here and there
to the peaks of everywhere.

from this jagged edge of california
to where she dives into atlantic,
from your ends of the earth and all the rest
to the clicking of all our fingers;
gray matters connected by screens of light,
beyond all geographics, politics and religions.
beyond all divisions; we are between those shadows.

 

Buk nekked

shoved awake
off the ledge
as you packed up
all those empty and full moments
onto wrinkled bits of paper
strewn puzzle-like

beyond those scribbles
are snail trails
of dried up thoughts
no mere escargot snot
nor mental mucus
burns indelible
somewhere for someone
proving nothing doing
can be something
for all times
after all

 

sheep and bushes

may you rot in hell
foster children nonprotectors,
egg suckers,
theives of democracy
and weazeled hen houses.

yeah, YOU, Jeb and George
(and daddy pulling strings);
your whole oil soaked family sucks.
Saddam's oil reserves aren't the real target
are they?

to one "bogus burning bush"
and his brother in particular,
the ones that
threw our last election,
the ones that
are trampling CITIZENS RIGHTS
(the way daddy did),
the ones that
thumb their noses at the heart
of what this USA thing is
REALLY
all about - FUCK YOU PUNKS -
and the family of thought and greed
you come from.

you've made Texas the most toxic state
with your stashes of oil byproducts.
now, since daddy didn't follow through
you want to avenge that limp ended war of his
years later ("avenge me" echos, eh?).

all around the family bush
george jr monkey chased
his own puppet reflection
on jerking strings;
thought all was fun 'til
he started the big one
that couldn't be stopped
and burned the whole planet down.

there's a new saying for americans
in the MILLENNIUM,
"JUST SAY BAAAAAAAAAAA!"
taxation without representation
is now personified in the highest
american office of our nonelected
nonpresident, and WE'VE LET IT HAPPEN!

the whole Bush family
makes Richard Nixon look like a saint.
Clinton screwed around,
big freaking deal,
but the Bush family
leaves the interns alone
AND IS FUCKING and FLOCKING THE USA AND THE REST.

JUST SAY BAAAAAAAAAAA, America!

 


 

jim christ
     author is currently a technical illustrator/graphic artist of northern california. he was born in New York and moved to Los Angeles in the mid 60's. After adolescence in LA and a tour in the Air Force, max relocated to San Francisco and then Sonoma County where he started a serigraphy studio and service as well as jobbing at everything from construction to truck-driving. As founder and manager of Wild Boar Productions, Jim promoted and produced Truck Competitions and Shows as well as musical events in small and large venues in the wine country of northern California as well as contributing studio work and graphix. Has been described as an ocean that's only six inches deep.

     At this time is assembling a body of work in linocut and woodcut in preparation for a show at the California Museum of Fine Art in Santa Rosa (this is going very slowly).

     When Jim isn't working, he's usually scribbling down these little groups of symbols that somehow paint the edges of this thing called life.
yours,
climbmax aka jim christ



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