T. Wendell Peek ~ the Perfesser

She hides in an attic concealed on a shelf
Behind volumes of literature based on herself
And runs across the pages like some tiny elf
Knowing that it’s hard to find
Stuff way back in her mind,
Winds up spending all of her time
Trying to memorize every line

Sweet Lorraine, ah, sweet Lorraine.
Sweet lady of death wants me to die
So she can come sit by my bedside and sigh
And wipe away the tears from all my friends eyes
Then softly she will explain
Just exactly who was to blame
For causing me to go insane
And finally blow out my brain,
Sweet Lorraine, ah, sweet Lorraine.

Well you know that it’s a shame and a pity
You were raised up in the city
And you never learned nothing ’bout country ways,
Ah, ’bout country ways.

The joy of life she dresses in black
With celestial secrets engraved in her back
And her face keeps flashing that she’s got the knack,
But you know when you look into her eyes
All she’s learned she’s had to memorize
And the only way you’ll ever get her high
Is to let her do her thing and then watch you die,
Sweet Lorraine, ah, sweet Lorraine.

Now she’s the one who gives us all those magical things
And reads us stories out of the I Ching,
Then she passes out a whole new basket of rings
That when you put on your hand
Makes you one of the Angel Band
And gives you the power to be a man,
But what it does for her you never quite understand
Sweet Lorraine, ah, sweet Lorraine.

Well you know that it’s a shame and a pity
You were raised up in the city
And you never learned nothing ’bout country ways,
Oh ’bout country ways, oh ’bout country ways,
Yeah, about country ways, oh, country ways …

{sunday} Leon Williams ~ Balance

A Bowl of Fruit by Robert Vandermolen
When I think of that room
I see the de Kooning at the end of the hall

Sometimes rain on the long windows
Or the tinkering of drops on the skylight

But not Yvon
Splashing Scotch into a cocktail glass

Otherwise fastidious—

In retrospect
I should have asked her more

About the famous jazz guitarist
She had been engaged to

But that much was true—

Even after she bought me a pocket knife
Sheathed in velvet

Every young man needs a knife
She informed her group

But in the restaurant her friends
Eyed me like a turnip. One that talked—

While she was away at her office,
I tried to read

Her unfinished essay
On the vagaries of diplomacy

Reclining
On a rug of embroidered storks

The two small Rodins
Seemed misplaced

A grand piano
She didn’t play

(though I did, affecting a controlled
passion

while gazing over rooftops
at carefully maintained gardens)—

I don’t remember her smell

I don’t recall her fingers

The last I heard she was living in Barcelona

She never did learn to cook

Now her letters are worth money

Much of the beauty that arises in art comes from the artist’s struggle with his limited medium.—Henri Matisse

This site celebrates images mostly shot and always processed on iPhones or other iOS devices. Occasionally, source images from DSLRs or other cameras are processed on iOS devices. 

No laptop or desktop computers are used for image manipulation.

Aim well, shoot fast, and scram.—Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Aim well, shoot fast, and app that bitch until it sings.—Knox Bronson.

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