The words keep coming....through the looking glass

Hmmmm. They didn’t start out prophetic. They started out as reflections. Little midnight doodlings. Obsessive Saturday night scribblings. To save my mind. To keep me breathing, in and out. Deep breaths. Manic pencil strokes that rescued me from the moment.I usually paint on the walls. The never ending, snaking ,growing taller walls that house my soul.And then, Joe died. And the clipboard with the

Rest in Peace, Sweet Friend, Singleton Hippie Art

Rest in Peace,Sweet Friend.(c)Singleton 2008.I see you inaccidental places ataccidental times,a face in the rearviewmirror,laughingin five o'clock traffic...a shadow on the midnightwalls,watching...a reflection in the wishing pond,fleeting, butthere, I swear.....I hear you in the sudden orchestraof unexpected windchimes,the laughter of strangers,the "I know this means something"words to a song

All Rise

Outsider ArtALL RISE(c) Singleton 2006In that predawn moment that seperates the night from tomorrow, I heard them. The sound of fancy spirits taking flight. Their movement so swift and fluid that I couldn't name their faces, but could feel the cool rush of peace as they departed in a dance of colors, rising....

Now I am JoeIt wasn't long ago that everytime I walked out my kitchen door, I found Joe there. Leaning up against his truck ...smoking a cigarette, gazing at the skies, smiling at the world I lived in. I would pull in my drive way, harried from the commute home and there he would stand, smiling. I know he didn't stand there all day, he created hundreds of thousands of projects in the 12 years I