Love Lust Longing and Truth is a poetry book collaboration with poet Jennifer Kite-Powell. Jennifer and I started collaborating in 2016 while living in a 19th century shoe factory in Brooklyn, NY. During the day we would take long walks with our dogs, and at night drink wine while she read her latest poetry. The specificity and truth in her writing stabs me in the gut every single time. I had to make art for this book. And I am honored that I did. I created the cover art, hand written title pages, and art correlating to each section, "love", "lust", "longing" and "truth". The original art was made with oil sticks on wood, so that when photographed and printed in the book it would feel tactile and raw to reflect the poetry. The book was published in 2017. Below you will see the art with a sampling of the poetry. Enjoy!
C8H11NO2 + C10H12N2O + C43H66N12O12S2
ingredients: Dopamine. Serotonin. Oxytocin.
preheat the oven to a temperature that makes it
completely unbearable to function in your daily life.
mix all ingredients together in a iron-clad bowl lined
with epoxy and dipped in adamantium.
whisk for two minutes or three to six months,
don’t use an electric mixer or add water, logic, sensibility or restraint.
heat to a low boil of schizophrenia, insanity and paranoia.
drain the extra froth.
serve immediately, garnish with a sprig of mint.
pair with Dungeness crab cakes and a glass of
rose on a pebbled beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
confederate jasmine is just designer ivy.
like a highly manicured and over-styled stiff southern belle at
the country club, it only clings to the finest things.
it's dark green waxy leaves,
as stiff as his morning erection,
form the scaffolding for delicate, white virginal blossoms
that fill the air with a hedonistic damp sweetness.
its invisible scent delicately floats around me filling the
pathways to my brain with an elixir of romantic narcissism.
that scent climbs all over me, laps at my ears
and slithers down my spine.
my body arches to meet its bewitching, sultry scent.
in a second it's over.
that should be an app.
airplane seat pockets are vile receptacles for traveler cast offs.
an unlikely hiding place for a furiously scribbled confession
from the passenger in 7A trapped there before you.
lost dreams, a JayZ concert,
a carnal tryst in a bourbon-scented
Westin Paris Vendôme hotel room
illuminated by half lit cigarettes
dying in a crystal ashtray.
just take a hit off her word syringe of love and discontent
and you know it ain’t the lies that hurt,
it’s the truth.
It's not what it looks like
hangers still swaying in the antique armoire.
punch in the stomach followed by a punch in the stomach.
that switched me on.
you haven't lived until you get switched on.