Archive for the 'Writing' Category

Interview with Raul Gonzalez on NAP Blog

Raul Gonzalez, Wake up Call (On My Last Nerve), 2011 | Ink and Bic pen, 45 by 65 inches acrylic. Courtesy the artist and Carroll & Sons Gallery, Boston.

An excerpt of my interview with Raul Gonzalez on the New American Paintings blog:

ADJ: How do you develop a character?
RG: When I was a kid, I would always get upset because I was in high school and the top shows wereBeverly Hills 90210 and Friends. I would look at these shows and think, “You know, there’s nothing about me or my friends that’s being represented in these shows.” I would go to a movie and the only Latino character would be a maid or a gangbanger, and it really upset me. Iit made me feel like I wasn’t a complete human being. A while ago, my brother wrote a comic book called,The Pretend Humans, and I worked on the illustrations for it.

So when I started working on this series here with the Indian heads and the buffalo and all of that, I based it on how illustrators since the 1800s and into the 1900s would draw those people who were considered to be less than human: Black people, Native Americans, Mexican-Americans. Just a simple circle, bulging eyes—that’s what those characters are. If you look at them one next to another, they’re all basically copies of each other, and that’s how I developed it.

read the whole interview here.


was just poking through some poems I wrote several months ago and found this:

A rippled river unfurled
a series of misinformed decisions
of the rudimentary kind
of the prosthetics used

We sat there wordless you and I
a brick barrier staged
the talking was all wrong
not in words
but crickets

A taunted oligarchy
a prurient mister
Harriet the shrew
and often times the Blackness

I woke to find my window half cracked
ugly malady
fortified wine makes the mind go

Love and vice versa

the mandolin next door played into

dusk; a hymn, a forgetful lullaby.

you two, with your touching hands.

the rosewood tree in the back garden

blossomed only once this year.

its petalled pink uncertain

it languished with the chilly march lions

and late april which stole its pussies.

archetypical lonelyboy

wanting the sex and the love

settles for a job and a ten-cent whore.


a saturated mediateque of

brightflashinglights—the yellows elapsing,

oh, oh, the blues try to rescue…

bright flashing lights and the bulbs

and the quickpulsed notes that blink.

they come up on you so.

played well into dusk; a harp joins in.

this song has no last note.


Laying elegance into adjectives.

A pudding of lemongrass and marmalade.

A workedup young singer, fresh from the stage.

Non-artists eating their words.



Erroneous nincompoop.

A whisk of sanity, of inanity.

Words denoting null.

Of a soothing caress.

Of a teapot.

Recognized actions forming an identity.

That One.

Him, over there, with the uzi in his hand.

Shotgun weddings and divorcees.


And armynationalguardsmen.


A signifier; past participles.

Garish beasts of twisted hair and destructive breath tearing into the flesh of the living.


Back in Boston

I’m back home again for an as yet undetirmined length of time.

A bit more from the writing piece I’m working on:


Looking back in time at the stars.

The biggest being the closest.

Venus rising over the southeast in summer.

Bigbears and hunters.

Moonman singing.

Moonman getting drunk.

Dipper pointing north.

Tubman running the railroad.

Religious parables passed down.

Of Abraham and the goat.

Of three subservient wisemen headed north.

Of a power greater than.

Of belief.

The astute discovery of love and passion.

Sipping red wine with moths.


A fiery hell burning holes in retinas and irises.

Estuaries of the Everglades.

Long storks stalking.

The slow trudge to the centre of the earth.

Lethargic snails sleeping in the brackish muck.


An illusion of the cerebellum.

Waking in the middle of the night, alone and in a cold sweat, looking out the window to see the bright lights of freedom hovering in the dense fog.

i Publications

My new Baby:



from the opus.  Its a rambling sort of thing.  Hills and valleys.


A merchant in the street hawking skip-dived wares.

Let macroeconomics work its course, must not disturb the gears.

A Rube Goldberg machine of sorts.

Yellow canary flying away to trip the switch.

Darwinian specimen.

We shall for evermore praise our Smithian brethren for bringing us these gems of gold and rubies.

Greenspan rebuking himself.


A laughing, indelibly caring pygmy swan.


Glibness as a sign of respect.

Argumentativeness being a treasured trait.

(Recycled machine-guns and semi-automatics.)

A soft sigh before intercourse.

A pitchfork in the hay.

Millais as a man of the people.


An illustrative gesture:  Lifting his arm, the sunken fellow motioned to a pair of neatly preserved patrolmen.  The officers, conferring, played hard of hearing, letting the old man struggle on the pavement.  Again, the drunkard lifted, almost flailed, his arm to motion at them and when, again, no assistance was offered, he began with a slew of half-cocked somewhat derogatory remarks, encoded by his inebriated state.

Long time coming

Sorry for the extended delay.  I’m back in Glasgow for the moment to write among other things.  Here’s an excerpt of a little thing I’m working on.  Keep checking back as I’ll be updating this regularly again.  I promise.


The decrepit linguist making faces at the kindergardeners walking by his window.



The faces they rejoinder with.


Bewilderment crossed with appreciation.

The spitting rain, ever-present, laughing along.

The joke, funny enough; tiresome comedy that tugs at your skirt and tears holes in your pantyhose.

A stumbled laugh. Evocative.


poem II

Forebears and imbeciles singing

to each other tragedies of long lost loves

and moody silences, of eternally entombed

stories chinese whispered from one to one. A

harrowing tale here, a rhapsodical deluge there.

Of filibuster intentions and romantic gallantries.

Of retribution riddled with failures.

Words, sentences, emotional redundancies

piling up to the ceiling and breaking

glass. Elegies by Rachmaninoff and Bach

cant mollify them now. The hatred,

the fury crimson irises spinning round.

And burst, a rupture is coming.


Grist for the grist mill,

cheese for the cow

and everyone gets just

a little bit older and wiser

but not me, not that kink

thrown to the gear not the

shoe caught up in itself not the

fragrant embolism. Give

me the fruit and the freedom, these

little wonders keeping me on

the up and up. And maybe a hair

to pluck or a lip to kiss or a

squadron to command. But

these are not necessities,

only tokens of bittersweet hubris.

From the desk of A. D. Jacobson.