Endurance

Endurance trapped in ice.

Soon to be crushed.

Oil Painting..

For Bukowski

If no one

else is there….

I am ready.

When Buk falters. . .

and I only hope

that it is not

in my lifetime.

I am ready

to take up the battle.

I’ll stand

toe to toe

with the best

of them.

The gunslinging

poems that

harassed his ass

from morn till morn.

Though not as fast on the trigger,

nor as finely tuned

as Buk. . .

I pledge to search them

out…

and shoot them down

like the dogs they are.

Buk won’t have to

worry . .

There’ll be a

new Marshall

in town.

h. morgan 7/9/93

They Keep My Beer

They keep my beer

on the bottom shelf

of the cooler.

It’s down there

because it’s

the cheapest shit

money can buy.

They also place

single bottled beer

along the bottom….

right in front

of the 12-packs.

I am forced to move

all the single beers to get to the

fucking beer I want.

“Why do you do this?”..

I asked the Chinese clerk.

“I struggle every day just to get my

beer.”

“Things more appreciated

when one works for them.”

he replied.

“Is it not so?”

I had to smile…

h. morgan 9/25/94

I woke up this morning

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There He Goes

There He Goes

There he goes

again…

The little sawed-off bastard.

I snap on the lamp…

reach for my watch..

and check the time.

3:40 AM…

and that hairy

little son-of-a-bitch

is yapping again.

I sit up..

light a cigarette…

think about calling

the neighbor.

Think better

of it…

Snap off the lamp.

And just sit there…

In the dark.

The glow of my

Cigarette

Reflecting back at me

From the window pane.

The dog yaps on.

Oh..Well.

h. morgan 7/10/93

The poems are out there

The poems are out there. . .

Some simply peering

through the window

at me.

Sometimes they hide among the

bushes where small children play.

Often in the dark clouds

where lightening

drives the wind.

Some hide in shadowed doorways

up and down the street. . .

or inside the deli

across the way.

Sometimes I have to search

them out. . .

capture one,

and drag him screaming home.

But mostly I find

that there are enough poems hidden

inside my bottle of Scotch.

I have but

to fill my glass. . .

and drink them in.

h. morgan 7/6/93

Black Child

Young in 1970.

Boy in bus station. The expression says it all.

Charcoal on paper. I was " drinking ale that day".

I know where

I know where

the poems are hiding.

They’re inside that

bottle of Scotch…

about half way down.

They’re good poems

too..

not those low life bastards

that tuck themselves away

inside cans of beer.

Nor those sensitive

ones,

found half way down

a bottle of wine.

But good, down to earth

hard-core poems,

that scream the truth

and challenge

you to fight.

I’m just the man

to go after

those fuckers

you know.

I’ll drag them

screaming from

that bottle

and nail them down

for all to see.

h. morgan 7/7/93

Man in Publix.

Maggie

My neighbors dog.

Acrylic on panel.

Virgil

Hank's dog.

Horace's mentor.

Railroad Tracks

Pencil on paper. Railroad tracks.

Endurance

Being crushed in the ice.

Oil painting

Head Drawing

In the Studio

Watercolor on fiber panel.

Scott Thompson's class.

My homework...

Duncan No 1 Tire Repair

This is acrylic on a cardboard panel.

My project in Scott Thompson's class at Samford After Sundown.

Cow Skull Still Life

Still life pencil drawing from classroom setup.

My adjunct professor..Scott Thompson's class..Samford After Sundown

05.03.10

Thomas Eakins

This is a water color painting of a section of an Eakins painting. Torn into four pieces by my wife as she was having a fit of rage. She said it was crap. She is my most outspoken critic.

Head Drawing

Drawing of my friend ..Red.