the shit beneath the fridge

This is the question. I won’t beat it under the fridge, the place you’ve been meaning to clean but never do. Why should you? It is disgusting, but who the hell sees it. My question to you, WHY? Why do you build a wall into a home, brick by brick, then let underneath the fridge go lousy. Why do I sit in this damn basement and pretend I know what I’m doing. Someday, I say it will matter. My name, is it something now, to me. It’s the birth name I was given. I play it like Cher and tweak it like Madonna, but I keep Vito and Carmella in my thoughts. Single names do not slow the world down. It is nice pretending for awhile, until the day arrives when you pound your head on the kitchen table trying to scare up the next big creative idea. Your throbbing skull is parallel with the floor–you see disgusting, grey fluffy shit under the fridge.

This is the question. You decide you’re going to clean beneath the fridge. WHO? Who will move the icebox from the spot where its metal weight has rooted down the corners. How much crap is actually under there. Is any of it alive. Does it matter. You will get a burly friend to help you. Or a thin-armed neighbor with a hand truck. Perhaps, emboldened by the decision to clean, you decide to pull its immensity away from the wall all by yourself. Crap. The wall behind the fridge will also have to be cleaned. That’s right. There is always something you didn’t plan for. But while the frigid monstrosity is vulnerable, it makes the utmost sense to scrape the wall scum off too. The fridge won’t miss its 5 o’clock shadow.

This is the question. You’ve gone and done it. Beneath the fridge is as fresh as a baby’s bathed bottom and you have accomplished a grand feat. There is power in your muscle and clean pride in your dirty soul. You can take on the world or any number of small creative endeavors. These little bursts of artful energy might just have walls of scum behind them. Imagine how you might feel, reaching those walls. WHY? Why didn’t you just clean beneath the damn fridge all those years ago when you first noticed the shit beneath it.
black-vampalienAnd this person (who has admittedly not cleaned beneath her fridge) has created vamp/alien no 4 – dark as a fridge’s underbelly, where no sun can shine

 

writers and artists I admire

Enchanted am I
when I collapse into your world
Inside, my eyes transfix on silent rhythms 
like nowhere else I know
Lost, my mind vexed
neurons dizzied to orgasmic numbness
I am a journeyman to your will
letters impossibly perfect
imperfectly created
Other petulant muses gnaw on my body–
“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free”
How these holy demons chew at my flesh
like ravenous dogs might cripple limbs

But you–
you, lure me to my knees
While I can only dream of sweating implements–
my hands wake and are forever empty
Bare pulp is sacrosanct, I touch it and abort
But you–
how you create
bringing new life each time, breathing air where I suffocate
Enchanting are you
Enchanted am I
Crashing wands, frantic waves
pulverize my bound world with freedom
Moonlight too, beguiled at your whim
I gaze at her through midnight glass
as a voyeur with insatiable desire and dark appetite

It is all I have–
imagining your soul pierced to my breast
Then it happens
I am transported
I am transformed
white-vampalienvampire/alien no 3 in my new, fun-for-necks, series

I have been on earth already

“don’t even think about it”
why do we say this to children
think
think about it ALL
just like you and your thoughts
me and mine
leap into the mud puddle
don’t worry about your fucking shoes
I do not want to be held back, I want to think
despite this goddamn aging that pins me at every throw
why didn’t I figured this out when I had media looks
you know, the kind that get me liked
a lot more than just my words
it is over now
there are too many images
God, there are millions
all online, all available, all better
lots of bubbling skin, pouting thighs
can’t, won’t go there
feminism and all that
my brand keeps the flesh undiscovered
naked is nothing new
it’s biblical old
now it’s only words, those things that wreak havoc
trashing the outside to make interesting insides
my brain processes volcanic ash
dead and burnt
flowing just to make a matured point
down into the hole
I leap off the stage
beneath sweating red gels
aren’t you
the world yes, “a stage”
a fucking amphitheater
for the” bizarre” and the “normal”
still those hands reach out
I don’t want to be caught
I want to dive into a pit
stop catching me and making it look right
planned, staged
“don’t even think about it”
a body sails across floating hands
cigarette lighters flicker
for someone deserving of butane
your hands touch my flesh
groping and grappling
I squirm for release
I want to remain in the air
I never want to land
I have been on earth already
it is time for a thoughtless vampire genie
to grant my magical release
with selfish abandon
blue-genie-vamp

madness, you see

I am quite capable of driving myself to madness
I do not require any help, most especially not yours
I do not need your over-involved directions
I can find the place blindfolded
You see, I have my map right here–
Tattooed on my palm with invisible inks
I have chosen the most expeditious travel plan–zigs and jags
I will not listen to your bullshit–straight lines and direct routes
You see, I am desperate to get there
I am sorry if I appear rude, but I cannot stand you anymore
I will not watch your tempting lips mouth what I do not want to hear
My friend, there is no time left for me–
for us

I really must reach madness
You see, it was long ago when I drove Him there
He is the only one who can tell me how to get back–
to the place I felt safest–
before I lost my mind
Trapped

fait accompli

to break ‘the rules’ in accordance with your understanding of them
love, the loaded chain ascribed to bind your complicated heart
twisted metal must eventually cut blood flow
suffer the sane, suffer the insane
there is not a singular countermove 
weighted shackles are duty bound to drag you down
all the way
sink your entirety below the waters of realism
submersion, suffocation
of pain, of fear – the drowning

come here, move in very close to me
let me help you, sweetheart
as we descend into the bottomless sea
into your panicking soul
I will whisper, above the chink of padlocks

the only secret worth dying for
I will murmur into your ear–
how to blackout the pain, void the fear

oh my darling,
is there breath yet left
for this–

the torture of your compromised heart
must joyously accept its doom

there, there
do not be afraid

‘fait accompli’
alien-vamp-2-reduced-size

HAPPY VALENTINE’S 😘
painted this vampy alienish woman over the last few days–
she only bites if I tell her to

 

a flat world where things sometimes roll off

sitting at my kitchen table–
a flat world where things sometimes roll off
‘thoughts’ cram my vapid head
never to disappoint, there she is my gooey, ‘Annie Oakley’
the incessant ‘creative’ cowgirl who rides my bulging brain every morning
trying her ‘Wild West’ best to lasso bucking words
working up quite a sweat she is, as I so often do trying to be ‘clever’
I’ve no chance of corralling these wild beasts
wax fences are nonexistent in my vacant mind
the most ‘insightful’ prose gallop directly out my right ear
wax that should be in my empty head is on the kitchen table–
a flat world where things sometimes roll off
here a tiny flame–cruelly trapped in a jar–flickers
–
like my tongue used to so many years ago
watching the singular flame burn, I imagine it raging
but the cold fireplace is empty like my head
outside the kitchen sliders, a tiny tufted .6 ounce titmouse
enjoys the seed I loaded in the feeder
others will be along
oh yes, here they come
the heavy snow is cascading down and these frail birds are stronger
than my slumbering two hundred and fifty-five pound son at the moment
when I was little
my mom and dad served as bookends at our rectangular kitchen table
their six children, incomplete chapters
now my parents have a round table too, with obligatory leaves for visitors
no more sharp corners for any of us
oh, a beautiful red-headed woodpecker has joined the snow-ladened feast
luckily for him his long chiseled beak is as sharp as it is
otherwise, he couldn’t reach the seed
life doesn’t have to dull everything down
it is glorious to have a point sometimes
isn’t it?
wildfire

my passion

so many of us wrestling our muses
getting off on the lonely thrill of possibility
safely tucked faraway behind a warm screen
not on the other side of winter’s sheets
the one who will save you from yourself and the spirit who toys with your intent
allowing us to believe and pretend there is something fresh to say
words, nuances in forms uttered as never before
more learned
more experienced
mock my inability
lovers mouth these moments in blind voice
ecstasy where speeches and diatribes are meaningless and sensations are God sent
complex notions suffocate deep in the wrinkles
in the darkness of bright minds lit by isolated hope
books of famous speeches forever bound together gathering dust
like my feet beneath my desk
there is nothing new to speak of
we unintentionally aim to create thoughtless things
passion and peace are not real
they are the pair of cement lions who guard my front porch
where Christmas lights still hang
other than these hardened beasts
peace is man’s inability to calm the ocean
and my passion is in your mind only

Pilate/acrylic

Pilate/acrylic

 

the long ones

The long ones, no one reads.

Or cares about. Isn’t that true, you there. You, who sees her words like an ant plagued with that mushroom spore fungus that first drives the insect mad before plunging completely through its exoskeleton and shattering its body. It’s a mad burst. Like these words here by her. Oh, if you only knew what she really wanted to place here. You might be off-put. She is one of those, he described as, “Didn’t seem the type. Always smiling. Always happy.” Though when he thought more about the woman he thought he knew, simply by looking at her normal-ness, he saw things. Each glimmer indicated a timid bizarre-ness about her lovely shell. She was, was nice to look at from certain angles. Yes. He especially appreciated the angle whenever she walked away. That was the first clue. The big marker stain on her ass pocket. He used to think it was the same pair of jeans with the same stain. God knows, you ain’t getting black Sharpie marker out of your pants. But when he pressed his 7 am to 6 pm mind, he realized the stain was part of her body.

He wondered if maybe she did something odd with the Sharpie. Something unholy. He’d been doing much reading online about depraved Sharpie appetites. He’d started this research after realizing he couldn’t quite ever take his smoldering eyes off her back pockets. He stared so much he thought sometimes he was causing those stains into her material ass. They were scorch marks from his burning eyes. No. This woman was people different. He had difficulty getting near women. The more normal a woman seemed, the more frightened he became. So maybe he desired this one, because he wanted to be stained. He described her as ‘normal’ to the heavy guys with the green jackets–funny, he thought they should be wearing white ones like in the movies–but in his lusting heart, he knew already.

They came when a desperate call was placed. “I heard screams coming from the abandoned building behind my house.” It was, of course, her. He knew it was, of course, none other than spectacularly stained Nella. He wanted to go in the van with her. They tied her arms back after wiping all the blood off and wrapping her face like an entombed Egyptian. They yelled this was necessary so she could bring no further harm to herself. The brick had done enough. Under her white wrappings, Nella was still fierce-faced. There was no evidence of tears or regrets. And her lovely stain, oh how it bloomed like a wild black halo on some goddess saint’s ass. His silent inside mouth cried. He wanted to leap upon her body, bloody mouth and all right there in the back of the van. And tell her, yell if necessary, the thing he never dared whisper.

The last time her ass stain walked away from him, her front had sung to his soul. Nella’s voice soft and small as a tiny toad with bird aspirations, blurted and blipped, “No one speaks my language enough for me to understand. I need my mouth to sing to me and keep me calm when my Sharpies run dry.” He guessed they had. The Sharpies all dead like those ants plagued with that mushroom spore fungus. Nella no longer had a moist Sharpie to connect their age spots. No way to make her star maps to find God. Or at least someone to talk to when the Sharpie odor stopped getting her high. The brick was her new friend. She would help her.

A few of the senior citizens Nella had knocked down and had drawn black lines on–connecting their age spots like connect-the-dots–well, their dentures had come popping out of their mouths. These images of conversations flying out from empty wet places heightened Nella’s desire for advanced conversation. The only way this could happen was a total smashing of her current useless mouth. She could have her own magical talking teeth.

And they did when the brick ran out of things to sing.

Nella had no teeth remaining in her ransacked, destroyed mouth. Still he heard every word she whispered.

MeAnn der Ingline

 

brown

my eyes are brown, did you know
mud-weary at this point and still brown
brown like the polyester pants I wore as a child
brown like the earth
honest and foot-affirming
when my large brown eyes were bigger than my little face
I learned to aim high for the heavens and shoot purposefully for the stars
sky-colored eyes and sunshine hair made perfect sense 
perfect sense
every time I gazed in the mirror I wondered
do they know I’m aiming and shooting for things beyond my reach
with brown eyes and brown hair and brown polyester
I am not Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella
damn these wrong colors
blue eyes I do not possess
plastic eyes in ocean colors, sold by the gross, shipped on palettes
will be fitted into gorgeous dolls with sunshine hair
it doesn’t matter to a brown-eyed face that ocean eyeballs are synthetic
in her little mind, these things are more real than her own tiny heartbeat
and so the brown-eyed child grows up
dreaming
for all of us to be loved for
“the content of our character”
and the pure color of our caring

Glodian/oil

Glodian/oil

MLK’s actual quote, “…by the content of their character.” (not our) – thank you

As a brown-eyed child growing up, I often felt this way

new love

you’ve made me sense the nearness of my years
and I don’t mind at all
possibilities are as rampant as raindrops on an April morning
I can see quite plainly how your smile is different
this is where I thought I might feel nervous
losing you to THAT world
the very same world, I once hurt my hands punching walls to reach–
hobnobbing like some awkward figurine whose two legs were sculpted as one–
and whose tiny Victorian shoes were forever jammed in a loaded pedestal
you are now primed to enter THAT world, but walking elegantly through the door
so you see my son, my smile is different too

max-yankee-smaller-filepainted this when Max only reached my elbow, now he towers over me