1. sirmitchell:

    Alright, so I had hoped to have a FEW prints lined up for SDCC, and that quickly turned into many. I’m really excited about these prints and I hope you guys are too! 

    Each print will be available at the start of each day in limited quantities (so those who can only make it on certain days will still have a shot). I’ll also have a SDCC exclusive t-shirt which will be available in limited quantities. Nucleus will be releasing an exclusive print, Mondo will also have a new (yet to be announced) Just Like Us, as well as the Joker record. 

    You can find me at the Gallery Nucleus booth (#2743) where I’ll be with the huggable Scott C. and the fabulous Frank and Becky (also huggable). Please stop by and say hello, pick up a free postcard and see the Lil Mikey figure in person! 

    SDCC SUPERpac 2014: Five pack, Edition of 100 - 4x6 - $50

    Pinkman: Edition of 50 - 6x8 - $25

    Flail & Buckler (pickle dude): Edition of 200 - 8x8 - $25

    Poleaxe (coffee dude): Edition of 200 - 8x8 - $25

    Segway: Edition of 150 - 8x10 - $35

    Puppies: Edition of 150 - 8x10 - $35

    Skully Cosplay(s): Editions of 100 - 8x10 - $30

    Purple-crowned Fairywren: Edition of 250 - 8x10 - $35

    *names & prices may change

    (via exhibition-ism)


  2. Book Deal

    I see you

    Swooping owl soft and downy


    And grainy in

    The eyelike

    Beads of black

    Sweat nestled

    At the crook

    Of a feather boa on a neck

    The effervescent


    Of centering


    And thoughts

    All scattered

    And coherent

    In stillness


    The gaps

    Shines through

    All the more

    Present and

    Eternal as

    The shutter gate

    Goes down and

    Flashing horizontal

    Like lightening

    Sheets I see you

    Whooing owl a

    Softness peaked

    At hard sharp

    Beak cursing and curving

    Cursed with

    Upright presence

    Plump with pride

    And falling through

    The gaps can only

    Meditate on the

    Balloon shapes

    For a few seconds

    And finding

    A stillness

    Through the tall

    Standard trees and epic poetry

    Is carried in the leaves

    Softly spoken

    So at to be

    Silent sight

    Cradled in

    The harsh flat

    Bleak light of

    Late afternoon

    I know from my knook

    And crooked trajectory

    It is cold

    As the flatness

    Of the light

    Pink blush

    Of warmth

    Ever sinking

    In the faraway hold still horizon

    Taken flight

    And fancy and

    I glance as

    The trees dance

    And whip at

    My vision seen

    As it is from the

    Car and they the

    Trees are the random

    Temple architecture

    Of dissertation of

    Lonely and uncharted

    Dipped and dipping deep

    Roots randomly

    Pricking at underground

    Water knowing

    And soaking

    In the spots

    Where the land has energy

    Like liquid

    A life-giving

    Juice that traverses the solid

    And opaque top visible

    Through the layers

    Of hard work digging

    Long way down

    Making a

    Line like pubic

    Hair thick and lush leaves

    As cloud shapes

    From far behind

    And beyond my

    Wistful sight

    Looking not at

    Where I am

    Going or to where the car is being driven

    But to the beyond and far distant

    And closely cropping up

    And almost seeming to brush

    The face place

    The beyond

    That walks and wends

    Its way with

    You hyperreal and hyperactive

    Fast as the car hurtles

    Along on another

    Wise deserted

    Road that is watched by eyes

    That aren’t mine

    And I see arcs of insight now

    The owl has

    Taken a flight of fancy

    And I glance as the trees

    Dance and whip at my vision

    Seen as it is from

    The car and they the

    Trees are the random

    Temple architecture

    Of a deserter of

    Lonely and uncharted

    Dipped and dipping deep

    Roots randomly pricking

    At underground water knowing

    Characters in the trees

    Growing in

    The parks

    And plantations

    They visited in between

    Drawing cells

    I smile at the trees

    And they smile back at me in the end

    In an odd cosmic way

    I am not sure at all

    How to begin the work

    Out of how many years

    Have they aged

    Or can I get perspective

    On this landscape

    Are the trees

    Seeming quite

    Pulpy of wood

    Texture and young actually

    Ancient and old

    Why do I

    Equate ancient with thickness

    And girth


    True meaning

    Now we stop

    The car this is only in pursuit

    Of some awe

    I see the shapes of the trees

    Like a parade of giant cartoon characters

    Slotted into my eighties kid


    Grown in know but still knowing

    And seeing so many

    Cartoon characteristics

    As they hop

    Some as big as the car

    Existing as a flash

    And it is impossible

    To name all

    The characteristics

    And associations

    In this association’s soup

    What did these trees look

    Like to people

    Before television

    And drawn characters

    Helped us or made me see so many

    Characters in Nature

    Perhaps it was the other

    Way around the trees

    Made it onto


    Animators seeing

    The shapes of their characters

    In the trees growing in

    The parks

    And plantations

    They visited

    In between

    Drawing cells

    I smile at the trees and they smile back

    Expressed in odd angles

    And arrangements

    The golden goal

    Buried in the minutiae

    Of my surroundings

    Clear to know

    What is mine and what is yours

    But not finding

    Full-filiment except by

    An obsessive

    Advancing record of events

    As I see them


    In concrete

    Though giving

    Spirited approach

    And perhaps


    My spirit or having a spirit of their own

    With solves for a riddle

    That hadn’t even been

    On my mind

    And now presented

    Itself as offering


    To how I could

    Inspiring photos

    And each of us

    Three see things

    In a different

    Way and the church

    With the dry

    Decaying outside

    Raw wood

    Walls speaks

    To me like in a secret

    Language of the past

    And I feel comfortable

    In its presence

    Though like so many who documented and for so long what do I keep and how do I keep it and for how long do I pursue the endless unraveling beauteous language writing itself righteously in the mundane and avoiding for me as it does now the big action shot or the overarching mood and finding itself expressed in odd angles and arrangements

    I hope to God that this is perhaps what heaven will be like

    Though it has within it traces of hell

    Like loneliness

    And the imperfection

    As existing flesh

    And bone feeling heavy and burdened

    With task of embodying this living


    And nourishing it

    Body and soul

    And living through it ever increasingly

    Hwaa nia dto sires

    Ievemen or empty neeb

    There tyb e nod

    And pla des ires

    And pla des I res

    Empty been that meaning


    Moods and perhaps this is the luxury



    Journey identity

    Skills and knowledge

    Was it on the shelf of

    Self yes

    Perhaps it was emptiness

    Filling out as it was I am

    Or was it abundance

    That was crashing

    Around me

    And filling me in

    The emptiness that was me

    I hoped and hope

    That this torture

    Would end

    Though it makes



    Very impulsive

    Action reaction

    I find perhaps many who diagnose

    This as some nose sort of misplaced

    This as some knows sort of euphoria

    Final solution



    This relaxes the poet

    Who finds

    Much solace in the meaning perhaps

    Hinted at the richness

    Beyond comprehension

    Leads in every direction

    That cannot all be followed

    Finding end


    Simple ever-cycling

    Longing and not longing



    No more



    The flow of following

    Everyday ecstasy

    Epiphany unknown mundane

    Of boredom though it is

    Coupled with fear

    That all

    Discoveries are gone

    Are in no need of being

    Created or documented

    The very touch

    Of the camera

    To the hand

    To the finger



    No solution





    Ending in wanting

    Impossible to name all the characters

    As a flash and it is

    Impossible to name all the characters

    As a flash and it is

    Was the other way around

    The trees made it onto television



  4. Self-portrait

    Digital photograph

    (c) Sam Blanch, 2014.


  5. Two poems:

    Ace of Dehille


    Black Cat Night

    read by the author.


  7. michaelswaney:


    (via michaelswaney)


  8. Four poems read by the author.



  13. Poem spoken by the author.


  14. Stick-Figure

    Bright eyes

    Bright child

    Brainwise and like

    Beyond a ten year span

    Drawing with thick black marker

    As tasks to do in-between times

    So much of this decade spent

    Listening to know

    And looking I suppose

    Growing into that model-space

    Zoned and extended and pushed

    Into shape, a shape

    Beyond ten years of listening to know

    Even now I am sitting and trying

    To create

    When there is

    No bad art just the currency of life

    It is hard to listen

    To an inner voice

    For so long told to listen


    And clichés come and are clumsy I tell you so

    Rhyme and free thought must be

    Truncated and coaxed into verse

    That speaks with it’s own voice

    As the rain fell today

    And I cosy in my hole

    A wholeness I strive for

    Eludes me in the jutting

    And repetitive logic

    And learned

    A dire contraption

    Or perhaps contra-punctuation

    My brain seeking freedom

    And turning back to

    And from familiar

    Workaday strive

    That compels the poet

    To write from the hand and the head and the and

    Not from the heart

    And I wonder

    Little stick man

    So sticky to the page

    Your hands grasp

    With simple pleasure

    To the tip of my drawing pen on the page

    Your body-shapes laid out plainly and fitting

    Come from the cut-outs I’ve seen

    Shapes are everywhere

    And I’ve seen them and named them to know

    But what of the circle unseen

    And a squaring off unknown

    And the rectangular prism of longing

    Or the pyramid of joy

    I draw you like a circle head

    And easily saying my piece

    I draw you and write you

    And make you complete