la vida no vale nada

sin un poco dolor,

y muchos actividades.










Sea lines.

The ebbing of foam and
spray from sea lines
reveals glittering calico
pebbles and shell fragments
upon coastal sands.
During the interim of
drought and abandonment,
the brilliance of this
treasure trove is dulled
by disclosure and desiccation.
There they remain,
rather indistinguishable
from the multitudes,
and dream of baptism
by tidal reclamation.


“A Wrist Cutter’s Glow”, oil on canvas, 50 x 50 cm.

tell-tale grimaces …
still trying to hide behind
forced smiles; a pained face.


The embrace.

Votos privados de la boda.

En cada momento
elijo confiar en mí mismo:
en mis intenciones y
en mis pensamientos,
en mis palabras y
en mi comportamiento.

En cada momento
elijo confiar en ti:
en tus pensamientos y
en tus intenciones,
en tus palabras y
en tu comportamiento.

En cada momento
elijo confiar en vos y en mí juntos:
en nuestros sueños,
en nuestros planes y
en nuestra capacidad de hacer
todo lo que queremos hacer.

En cada momento,
empieza el renacimiento.



Una reunión agradable
toma fuego
en viento venenoso.


Gossip, oil on canvas, 40 x 40 cm., 2017
The Scream, No. 2
Still photo from Marina Abramovic’s film “The Scream”, republished with permission from Ekebergparken’s Scream Prosjekt / Marina Abramovic


a naked canvas
on a painting easel
waits together with me
in anticipation of
the new year.


rodo y adam, 50x50 cm., oil on canvas, 2017.
rodo y adam, 50×50 cm., oil on canvas, 2017.

Sólamente este momento …

Tenemos sólamente este momento.
Una pausa sola, sin aliento.
Un momento sin comienzo o final.
Una eternidad.
Un beso que quema nuestros labios.
Una pasión ilimitada.
Un momento que nunca puede ser olvidado.
Mis sueños son siempre iluminados cuando
me duermo … pensando en tí.
Un caballero; un hombre …
somos perfectos.
Pero no siempre perfectamente juntos.
Vivo para aquellos momentos de perfección.
Vivo para morir de amor por tí.
Tenemos sólamente este momento.
Una pausa sola, sin aliento.
Un momento sin comienzo o final.
Una eternidad.
Mi cuerpo tiembla …
cuando tus pestañas cepillan
contra mis mejillas.
Una pasión ilimitada.
Un momento que
nunca puede ser olvidado.
Abrázame, y nunca me déjes ir.
Este es nuestro momento.
Un hombre … un caballero;
somos perfectos.
Perfectamente ahora …
somos perfectos.


vigeland statue

vi er …
to rastløse sjeler; to ildfluer.
sammen skal vi kunne
sveve over himmelen — som ørner.
sammen er vi poesi, rockemusikk og
abstrakt kunst — på vårt aller vakreste,
og mest provoserende.
sammen er vi rettferdighetens sverd
med rose duft.



self-discipline is
a fantastic sport and a
great meditation.

Boxing gloves, sports photography by Adam Donaldson Powell.
Boxing gloves, sports photography by Adam Donaldson Powell.

badebasseng på kampen

jeux d’eau.

jeux d’eau ;
dégel du printemps :
gouttes d’eau,
parfois en cascades …
beau à regarder.
et pourtant fascinant de voir
comment ces jeux d’eau
peuvent à la fois
donner une nouvelle vie,
et nous soutenir …
mais quelque fois aussi détruire
beaucoup de ce qui est
naturel et artificiel …

badebasseng på kampen6


Es prudente tratar de evitar el cáncer, pero para muchos de nosotros es en última instancia inevitable. Personalmente, me preocupa más morir de mis propias neurosis.


saturn’s blues.

when the moon is in Fresno

and the sun sets a purplish

haze over early-autumn skies,

the cold winds of Hell

breathe heavily against

the hopes of local heroes

and the women who made them.

farmers stare off into the fields

without realizing, and housewives

pull their young close to their

bosoms – suddenly and

without explanation.

intuitively they sense the onset

of a long and severe influence;

a time of hardship and hindrance

when the faith and courage of

more than a few good men

and women are put to test.

the carousel is out-of-control,

and in the whirlwind confusion

crops will fail, loved ones will

pass away, jobs will be lost

and the simplest of dreams will

be stifled by saturn’s blues:

a mocking nursery rhyme telling

of horror and despair, and sung

over and over again with endless

variations on the same cruel theme.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)


don’t ask.

(original English version, from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

please don’t ask me how I am;

you can’t really expect

me to be any different

than I was yesterday.

we’re all really quite normal —

me, myself and I, and in

spite of our narcotic state can

be up and down simultaneously.

and don’t look at me too long;

I despise those “I know

how you must be feeling

eyes” and concerned tone.

why must you always misconstrue

the way my gaze avoids yours?

my anti-social disposition is

intended to protect you from us.

no — it doesn’t help to

speak slowly, pronouncing

each word with the sweetened

diction of a nun or nurse.

I honestly can’t tell you how to

act, for I have trouble enough

getting us to agree about

how we’ll shield you from me.

it’s really best to let me volunteer,

lest my unbridled demons unleash

their flame-throwing dragons to singe

the delicate threads of your own ego.

and you, so footloose, must avoid looking

back into the darkness whose glittering

maze of mirrors encaptures those who poke

their noses where they don’t belong.

go ahead — ask me how I am …

(Spanish version)

Por favor, no me pregunte cómo estoy;
usted no puede esperar
que yo esté muy diferente
de lo que estaba hasta ayer.
Todos estamos bien, normal –
yo, mí y yo mismo, y debido
además, a nuestro estado
podemos estar simultáneamente bien o mal.
No me mire fijo, le recomiendo;
yo detesto esos ojos de “Yo sé
como se siente … ”
y el tonito preocupado.
¿Por qué todos siempre malinterpretan
el modo en que mi mirada evita la suya?
Mi disposición antisocial es
para proteger a todos de nosotros.
No – no ayuda
hablarme despacio, pronunciando
cada palabra con el dulce tono
de una enfermera o niñera.
Honestamente no puedo decir
cómo actuar,
ya tengo bastantes problemas
tratando de ponernos de acuerdo
entre nosotros.
Sobre cómo protegerlo de nosotros.
Realmente lo mejor es dejarme ser un voluntario,
y permitir que mis demonios salvajes se suelten
y a sus dragones de lenguas llameantes hacer arder
los hilos delicados de su propio ego.
Y usted, tan descuidado, evite mirarme
cuando me vaya de nuevo a la oscuridad
cuya brillante masa de espejos captura
a los que meten su nariz en lo que no les importa.

Déle, déle, pregúnteme cómo estoy …

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006, trad. de Maria Cristina Azcona, Buenos Aires)


Un día lo entenderás …

Trato de ignorar el zumbido del teléfono —
tan incesante … y desesperado.

Ya conozco tus palabras:
“Me preguntaba si aún estabas muerto …
¿Hay algo que pueda hacer para ayudarte?
!Ay Caramba! … Perdona mi torpeza.
(Quiero decir: ¿hay algún cambio
desde hace una hora?)”

Tú sabes: no puedo contestar el teléfono
porque no puedo cuidarte nunca más.
Ahora no.

Un día lo entenderás.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Jisei”, 2013.)

Tainted dreams, oil on canvas, by Adam Donaldson Powell.
Tainted dreams, oil on canvas, by Adam Donaldson Powell.


I swear they make this tightrope

thinner each time I attempt to cross.

I remember how my psyche could once

dance endless sommersaults back and forth.

and how every now and then I would

laugh mercilessly to myself at how I

astonished and sometimes even

infuriated others with my devilish

dexterity of mind and wit.

but now, having fallen all too often,

I quiver at the sight of both

challengers and supporters; and

look upon success in reaching the

rope’s end as another day’s survival

rather than a demonstration of prowess.

I know a good sport never complains but,

I swear they make this tightrope

thinner each time I attempt to cross.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)



well hidden behind the portals

of passionless and watery eyes 

the incessant carousel of an insomnious

three-legged waltz is revealed with

childlike vision; hypnotically in

syncopation with the murmur

of the inviolate ticking clock.

in this surface-like existence, well

beyond resistance and emotion,

every attempt to break through is

as futile as punching a pillow

or screaming in a dream.

and in the absence of promise we

eventually find solace in our perpetual

state of existentialism and blues –

and pretend not to recognize the

everpresent and bittersweet

scent of lemons exuding from

each and every passerby.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006.)

The Sun.
The Sun.

Letter to a blogger … from an incarnated Angel.

¡Buenos días!

Hello my friend! In my mind and heart the “fall from Grace” is really about separation of Consciousness. When we no longer understand and experience the interconnectedness of all things and entities then we begin to refer to God in the third person, as an image of a man, and as a force that is outside of our minds, bodies and souls — and thus foreign, controlling, sometimes uncaring and mean, and responsible for everything “bad” that happens. When “the gods are not on our side” then we profess that God is non-existent or irrelevant. In Truth, God is consciousness supreme – and exists everywhere, all the time, and in all of us. When will we finally embrace God Consciousness and speak to God within ourselves and all things, ideas and occurrences around us? When will we understand that Free Will really means that we may even deny that we are a part of God Consciousness and create illusion of separation, and that God’s forgiveness and love is by definition inescapable? I am God, and so are you! Some may say that I am blasphemous, but I still acknowledge God Consciousness in that thought – even though it is based on separation of Consciousness.

Regarding angels: In my opinion Angels are inter-dimensional beings that may assume different forms appropriate to that which they wish to do and whom they wish to interact with. Like other interdimensional beings and energy forms they can shape shift into humanoid form and also fully interact with humans – even sexually. Sex with angels is not emotional on their part. They do what they need to do in order to fulfill their functional duties, so to speak. To humans, experiences with inter-dimensional beings often seem like a dream, but all such interactions impregnate our Consciousness and tweak us back to remembrance of aspects of our own soul contracts. Marriage – as humans  think of it – is foreign in the afterlife (or in life between lives, however you believe it is after bodily transformation). We are all “married” to everyone … as a community of souls within God Consciousness. And when we embrace “enlightenment” at those moments we remember that we are also interdimensional entities – Angels, if you will – and that our only job is to help perpetuate the constant expansion of God Consciousness in ourselves, each other and our Universes.



Blogs are literature; and art and literature are but one more expression of “truth” within a greater context … a context that is so ubiquitous that it is unfathomable.


On dog days,
when nothing goes right,
impatient young men grumble
that the gods are
not on their side.
Their pursed lips
may boast indifference
but tell-tale scars
of self-abuse underscore
the misery of defeat.


To inner-city true believers,
average is the ugly consequence
of weakness and error —
their idols being tv immortals,
and greatest foe time.
Suitably, peer group heroes
inspire the less visible
with eloquently-layered lies —
and not once disassociate
mask from morality.

(from “Collected poems and stories”)


Peripheral lines
in my psyche
and yours
dance and intersect
with agreement
and understanding.
But crossed
lead both
dogs and nations
to quarrel.

(from “Three-legged Waltz)

Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.
Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.


Tales from Four Cities.


Gyrating, pulsating rhythms
from stores, restaurants and bars
echo the collective chaos in
the streets of Thamel.
Enticing … pushing … egging on
passersby and pedestrians who
dance and wander up and down
ever-crowded streets and alleyways;
Continuously sidestepping
the endless stream of
taxis, rickshaws and peddlers.
Everyone is forever on the
lookout for personal contact and
the first economic gain of the day.
The exoticism of spirituality
blended with indigenous capitalism
encaptures even the most
unwitting novice almost
immediately upon arrival.
Religious shrines interspersed
among beggars and sellers
of Thangkas, books, Tiger balsam,
clothing, jewelry, teas, Internet services
and remnants from the Hippie era.
Kathmandu is a living organism —
always expanding and contracting,
like a vagabond lotus blossom
navigating with both aimlessness and intent
on a rushing mountain stream.
It is the modern trance of Buddha …
welcoming the uninitiated with
open arms, and yet constantly
confirming that life is not so easy for
those without prior experience.

“Namaste! Where are you from?!!”

(from “Rapture: endings of space and time”, 2007)


(East Village, New York City — 1987)

As the crowd pushes me upward
from the darkness of the underground,
a mild panic begins to rush
through my veins yielding
torrents of sweat that race
uncontrollably over my
forehead and chest.
With just moments to spare,
I hasten to tear off my tie,
roll up my shirt-sleeves, and
complete my disguise with
the darkest of shades and
the meanest of scowls.
At the surface, my head begins to
reel at the stench and sight of
unwashed urchins and broad-smiling
ne’er-do-wells with extended
palms seeking tokens, cigarettes
and loose change.
My already shortened nerves are
obliterated by the blasts of
Buick-sized radios carried by
junkies and peddlers of items
discarded by me the week before.
Looking about with hesitancy and
anticipation — I shriek and recoil
in horror and disbelief:
the punks, thieves, beggars and
schizoids are chasing me now!
… Boom — Chiga-Boom,
Chiga-Boom-CHIga-Boom-CHIGA BOOM!
Once home — saturated by disgust
and relief — I retire to the
tv-room with scotch and soda,
and eagerly await the new report
concerning those who were
not so lucky.

(from “Collected poems and stories”, 2005)

Collected poems and stories

SEE VINTAGE PHOTOS FROM OLD NEW YORK (including the 12 years that I lived there) HERE!


Las reglas más importantes
con respecto a la vida
nos fueron reveladas unos momentos
antes del amanecer en
una de las grandes avenidas
que siempre están en discordia
con la lógica de las cosas útiles:
el vino joven …
el sexo promiscuo …
las compras compulsivas
y quizás … el ir a la iglesia
en un día de trabajo.
Nos reconocemos en los
sueños vivos capturados en
las pinturas de Goya y El Bosco.
Y allí, bailamos nuestro último tango;
lenta …
y religiosamente …
y huimos de la memoria exacta
a la sombra de nuestras

(from “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006)

Three-legged Waltz

MARSEILLE … ouah, quel beau mec ! oh là là là là là là !

une chaude journée d’été à marseille,
sans souci …
oh là là là là là là !
il a remarqué mon regard
il a l’air en colère
il vient vers moi
il demande une cigarette
nous allons à mon hôtel
il me quitte
une heure plus tard, satisfait
le lendemain, je le remarque dans la rue à nouveau
et il a toujours l’air en colère
pour certains,
une vie avec le sida est une vie gâchée
ils n’ont rien à apprendre,
et rien à contester …
et ils ont surtout engendré la haine
envers le monde
et envers eux-mêmes
… ouah, quel beau mec !
oh là là là là là là !

(from “JISEI, 2013)