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sketch [ & paint ] book

After Google (a runaway Haiku)

Artwork by Rachel Jill Papernick

Artwork by Rachel Jill Papernick

I find myself weary of this machine.

Yearning for the age of technology to end.

To go back to bare feet and humble hearts.

To a point where our self-righteousness,

sense of entitlement,

bank of bondages

would fade into the past

in a matter of minutes

and with one flash of light

we would look at these contraptions and think:

How silly we were.

Just how lame was our ambition.

How quickly we killed off our own humanity

through the most uncreative of tools.

| tap, tick, click, click |



Haiku du jour : Ode to Vulnerability


We are carved from the

same sad stone, only mine is

more wood than stone.

Artwork by Rachel Jill Papernick

Artwork by Rachel Jill Papernick


Anything but the truth.


Artwork by Rachel Jill Papernick

vulnerable &

strange we are. I stalked the

night streets to forget.



Dear India:

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
where knowledge is free;
where the world has not been broken up into
fragments by narrow doemstic walls;
where words come out from depth of truth;
where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
where the clear stream of reason has not lost its
way into the driery desert sand of dead habit

-Rabindranath Tagore

the ride (part II)

Rest stop

Filtered black flies     come into focus at rest        on the wind burned glass
Legs peel from the seat     like a dry tongue      from the roof of mouth

I breath fumes     watch the morning     bloom over steaming lids
The sky blushes salmon     in the distance       repetition of sound

Doppler in the grass blades     rode edges burned to ash     blown back up into blueness
As the engine turns     linears of big rigs reel  start running     one hollow hum

the ride (part I)

I rode shotgun
No one spoke for miles

Passed fields of pale blown wheat
Telephone pole crosses

Fluxing wires
I can’t forget

The daydream of death
My still reflection

Dark sky eyes
Over the quick blue

And stratus clouds
Upon my window

Inside the wind

one buddhist’s theory

'ilusión' ( sketch 09.10 + photo of grass thru crack in Panama

welcome to heartache

A thing called drugs. Pay
No attention to the hand
behind the moon, full.