Byline: Famous Monsters Part 11: Strange Desires

Buford Youthward

Strange dreams and stranger desires irritate the dots in my down line. I look up, sit still and listen close for the cherished sound of cherubs in the woods.

These woods, far from the wilderness, far from the wilds of some remote stretch of nature are the glass, girders and cement piles piled high from below the ground to the horizon blue.

I rage against the machine gun, gun down the machine and work relationships like a kid with an itch. And so I am. Out for all good, for all times and getting my superhero cape out of the dry cleaners.

I recede beyond the horrors of the recession, see past the past and into the present. The time machine moves through space and keeps propelling on to better days and cooler ways.

This rabbit has his tricks gets his kicks and winds down with electric guitars and dirty gin. The smart kid accepts, the idiot insists. Lost in the sauce, I melt into the abyss but smile too bright to get abysmal. Playing safe is only playing.

With precise language, I unfix ideas, look for the connections and unhinge the obvious and arcane. The beauty of life found in its kaleidoscopic appearances gets smeared on the Krylon color chart. Painting is easy when you don't know how, but very difficult when you do.

No wildfire can keep me from getting wild and I disguise my discourse in the mild, mid-tempo heat of a brand new beat. The rhythm of the world latches onto my good graces, gets displaced, finds itself in irregular places. I hear it on the train tracks, on the street and in the suburban silence.

Beware of monsters wary with drink, sipping vodka from straws and floating past yesterday's paychecks. These kids know no good. Disrespect sober moments and play catchup with the wrong equipment.

I smash the digital camera, shake loose lost images and maintain the proper privilege to continue my trek. The haunted house and tunnel of love keep us spiraling like paratroopers on a combat jump.

Feel the great presence of the misty night, the soft autumn wind and the cool evening glow. Kids with spray paint know. Oh how they know.

Read more in Byline

Art Crimes Front Page