Tweetzilla: The Evil Blue Raptor

Innocent in direction
I was simply walking and conversing with a dear friend
we were discussing Existentialism
peppering our profound dialogue with
philosophical musings on Impressionism
we fancied ourselves brutally brilliant
beneath the miles of cadence, I was vastly superior
my dear friend had labeled, Albert Pinkham Ryder an Impressionist
calling out, Moonlight Marine, 1870
I was courteous, as always, letting it pass that the reclusive artist, Ryder
was a student of Expressionism
and that’s when the sky darkened
a horrid thing circling above
monstrously proportioned and diabolically blue with a ‘mawful’ of rotting flesh
its breath alone could expunge lower Manhattan
this consuming creature, was screeching numbers in succession
I spied symbols seared into its flesh, several feet above its talons
– the width of sewer pipes
the markings appeared to be random hashtags and a number
# # # 140
I quickly deduced it was counting my words
but it wasn’t just counting my words
the bastard beast
was counting each letter I spoke
what cruel thing was upon me
this damnable blue bird
if I uttered more characters than the tolerated amount
it would surely kill me
140, 140, 140…
tweetzillaBluebell, as I affectionately call this fellow was created a few years ago. I recently ‘tweeted’ for the¬† first time. I was a tad ‘stupified’ by Twitter’s character counter, as I attempted to be succinct. Adding insult to injury – Twitter told me I had to be more clever – too many characters… and I thought, aha, there’s fun to be had here. You know, it’s quite difficult writing something meaningful when it comes from a place of less character…140, 140, 140… ūüėČ

communal totem

There is an eternal savoring that goes unspoken
its pulse runs deep
beneath streets
under beds
below huts
stuck on the soles of naked feet
jammed into chests
tucked in fat wallets
thrown in abandoned shopping carts
weaved into baskets
planted in soil

across earth and ocean
the sensation of completeness
is a communal totem
whose likeness is known to all
but whose mysteries will forever remain
absent in every heart
patterna square college project I created long ago, made round for this post

Thoughts of hope go out to Nepal this night

cliff driving

breaking inside
so this is what it feels like
not so bad
I can ride this out
my Harley is jacked
chiseled with painted flames
and gassed up
plan on doing the 218
you know, the black zigzag along the Hudson
when me and the Harley squeeze
the sharpest cliffs and steepest drop
I’m gonna leap off the saddle
and let that tricked-out bike fly solo
there goes my pain
crashing with mortal heat
into the frigid river

bike babea bicycle she rides, but we can pretend it’s a big, awesome Harley

Thoughts to Nepal – may the death toll stop rising and the injured get the help they need

Burning to Paint

A dear blog friend of mine, Deb over at C-Dog reminded me about this post. I published it awhile ago. I’m putting it forth again (with a few tweaks). It explains how I came to not simply enjoy art, but to understand the soul of it.

Jess’s Story

I think we can all remember the epiphany or spark that ignited each of our unique creative journeys.

For me it was a newspaper article. I think the year was 1977. There was a photo of a little girl’s face – beautiful and horrifying at the same time. She’d been caught¬†in a fire and sustained third degree burns over most of her body. At the time of the article, I was fourteen.¬†Jess was much younger.

The newspaper article’s primary¬†focus was on¬†the miracle of modern medicine and a¬†magical procedure¬†to¬†‘regrow’ damaged skin tissue. After my parents finished with the paper, I asked if I could keep the article. I stowed it in my top desk drawer. That night, as I tried falling asleep, Jess’s face filled¬†my dreams. The next day and the day after that Jess’s skin covered¬†mine. Her sorrowful¬†eyes peered¬†into my¬†head¬†and¬†rested themselves in my dreams.

By the fourth sleepless night, I knew what I had to do.

Ever since I was little, I’ve¬†created art¬†and kept¬†diaries. Like many little girls, I drew horses. I eventually moved onto other subject¬†matter¬†and took up painting. I knew I enjoyed¬†art, same as¬†I enjoyed¬†eating a good cookie¬†or¬†playing sports. But,¬†something inside me changed after reading Jess’s story. I had to paint. It wasn’t a¬†choice. Painting her little, damaged face was the only way I could¬†give her¬†the respect and hope she deserved. It was the only chance I had to remove¬†her burning image from my mind and place¬†it elsewhere. Not to be forgotten, but to be remembered…
JessOnce I painted Jess, my nightmares stopped.
And my creative journey¬†began…

Happy B’earthday

squeezed to point of pain
between plates of hard glass
body facing east
breast facing west
lying on cold, aqua-blue vinyl
covered with white tissue wrap
lower extremes spread
invasive metal instruments
sitting in bare, beige room
upper arm cuffed and pumped
tongue extended
ears plundered
I do this for you
I wouldn’t do this for me
if there are soft infants
in your bright future
in healthy arms
I’d love to embrace them

Caroline baby/oil

Caroline baby/oil

Caroline in oil, painted 16 years ago.
My delicate daughter turns 17 on Earth Day
Happy B’earthday, Caroline
Happy Earth Day, too ūüôā

cloud dancing

april 21
three am
her spirit smashes the institutional window
the glass doesn’t shatter
what is left behind
the peace in knowing
her suffering is the only thing that has died
let it stay dead
on she goes
dancing with her petite feet
pain no more
glenn miller is in the mood
upper teeth biting her lower lip as she spins
she’ll use those teeth when she laughs
she laughs backwards, sucking in lots of air
the clouds are sailing across the sky today
nina must be on a roll



Keep those clouds moving, beautiful nina…xoxo

nina2012 (left to right) big son, aunt dee, giant husband, aunt nina, uncle bucky, sis dolores, delicate daughter


life is a line

we sometimes spend our lives concerned over –
being first on line
choosing the right path
towing the line
being offline
being online
going down the wrong road
border lines
crossing the line
traffic lines
tree lines
the waterline
the shoreline
tan lines
following dotted lines
our waistlines
defense lines
taking the shortest line
getting wires crossed or knotted up
sniffing lines
hem lines
panty lines
firing lines
signing on the line
communication lines
wrinkle lines
writing lines
lines of demarcation
fault lines
waiting in line
making headlines, avoiding them
picket lines
yellow lines
assembly lines
coloring in the lines
cutting on the lines
perfect lines
making beelines
memorizing lines
first lines
last lines
stepping out of line
lining up
drawing lines in the sand
pickup lines
party lines
lines of crap
a line of bullshit
the only line missing
is the only line that matters
it is the line cut into our flesh upon conception
the thin, supple line that separates our life from our death

there is a line.
walk it well
cycleLife Cycle, acrylic on paper painted thirty years prior

Goodbye My Nina

her body is vacant
a thin layer of flesh keeps the bones warm
this contorted figure is not one I recognize
this is not her anymore
gone is the root of the cherry blossom
or the ledge before the precipice
she is elsewhere
but her eyes, those eyes still dark and breathing
through those dark, glassy windows
a beautiful soul prepares to make its escape
Godspeed, sweet Nina



For my beautiful aunt, may she go swiftly into the night…
May cancer cures be found…
Charcoal figure drawn when Nina was healthy and much younger.

the ride

it is difficult stepping away from those tracks
against a crystal skyline
pillars of graceful loops and effortless curves
are intriguingly sexual and artistic
we approach without planned caution
when in tactile position
become overwhelmed
with complex magnificence
our senses fire off
excited for limitless possibilities

the engine pulls up
with its H.G. Wellsian glow
Dalí inspired cars follow
enticing soft-shapes open up
we board
as sure-footed as the person ahead of us
the ride begins
at a drugged snail’s pace
we plummet down
upside over
we stopped appreciating the beauty
ten wrenching loops ago
our stomachs lurch forward
our hearts race upward
something catches in our throats
but damn if we’re letting go
we chose this ride
thrilling as it goes
we know
it can’t last

Zoo Balloons

Zoo Balloons

didn’t have any art remotely roller coaster-esque, hoping balloons get me close –
zoo balloons created a few months back previously published ūüôā

about birds

Ah, we female birds
so plain and dull
sitting upon our nests
obliged to keep our eggs warm
and what do you do
fly off with your freshly preened
brilliant red plumage
to seduce another dull female
while we colorless squatters
do not complain
understanding the urge to wander
is in your nature
so we dust-feathered, will teach troops of earnest chicks
and you will be crowned master of ceremony
for a parade of dull females
red-crested woodpeckerI was just light-hearting the prose up a bit – no offense to many a good man.¬† ūüôā
Red-crested woodpecker done with watercolor marker and Prisma pencil a few weeks ago