kryptonite

sometimes she just gets tired
her little world snags on the edge
it doesn’t want to spin
neither does she
kryptonite sometimes settles across her womb
in the dark where light once lived
a spec of universal magic
slapping weightless color across heaving walls
offers no more portals
and the face present for all
is its most false
on the other side
baby gorilla
baby chimp in prisma on construction paper done a few years back-thank you

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do we know

there is a place
do we know
do they
where wind blows to sow forests
insects crawl beneath shade 
no matter beliefs
ocean waves crash back and forth
pulling and taking and giving back
circling the hands of time
moon, comets, sun
arrive and leave and return
purple sands conceal water
bombastic rocks jag the horizon
steam rises from thick emerald tangles
they have not a thought
only sheer mechanics
who scorches earth
waters gardens
holds hands and kisses mouths
cleanses injured
prays, screams, moans, mourns, laughs
with the commonality of desire
of a need
those who utter its uselessness
or lack of purpose
are liars
we all love
we do
all love
and there is a place
we might share
covered in blue
do we know
do they
sasquatch
difficult reading the newspaper some mornings
this illustration I created last year, to me this represents peace and love and kindness and humanity

just passing above the middle

I am 53. Just passing above the middle, should I hit 100. I’d most enjoy cliff leaping in the saddle of a ’56 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible. Metallic silver and yes, big ass whitewalls–are there any other kind. If I make it to the other side, goodie for me. If that Caddie craves a good old-fashioned swan dive–feel its metallic skin synchronize with the sun, far be it from me to begrudge a classic its last butt kickin’ ride. Blaze away on fumes of glory–odiferous but bright. At the end of this particular road, don’t want anything else but that Caddie’s brilliant grill smiling in my cheesy face.

So here’s the thing about passing just above the middle. I’m a painter sometimes. Not always. Not often enough. Words seem to flow more (lately) off my cheap brushes than grade-two level paint. The good stuff, authentic pigments magicked with fine mediums are out of my studio basement league. And if we’re waxing oils, nothing ever more brilliant hit gessoed linen. Long ago the art person hiding in my head bought a big ass white canvas–is there any other kind. This 5′ x 4′ blank rectangle partially disappeared behind a bedroom dresser. The rest was concealed by a painting done ages ago when I wasn’t drowning in midnight words.

Change has been hanging out with me. He can be an overbearing bastard and so enjoys boxing ears. He’s been asking all sorts of questions lately. When you’re passing just above the middle, you have more questions than answers. All along, you’ve been sucking in a portfolio of answers. Hit the alarm clock and drive into a day of questions and answers. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Until change dude starts banging you from behind. He wants to know what will satisfy you now. Really get you down deep in your sweet spot. You’ve done many things already. Some stuff has been figured out. A few hidden memories still flush red. What is it you really want? What is it you haven’t done yet?

My mind is blank but I need to get this guy off my back–he’s a load. Then sometimes things come together. My first just-passing-above-the-middle epiphany. Mind blank. Blank. Blank canvas. I’m a painter sometimes. Not always. Not often enough. I haven’t touched gorgeous oils in awhile. In my 53 years of living, I have never painted an ocean.
first ocean

so here she is, my first ocean, not quite finished, need to hit a few more spots, used no reference images just a wing and a prayer and lots of eye squinting, waiting until change dude eases up a bit

 

 

friends from another side

Dearest Friend,

I have not forgotten you
have you forgotten me
it’s hard
keeping up with it all
isn’t it
you know what days and nights play at
life, now she can be a bitch
just as she can be a lover
whatever her mood
I embrace her
as I do thoughts of you
while in her arms
wishing like hell, they were yours

Voodoo Yellow Man/mixed media

and here is my original pal, hatched a few years back prior to earth tone clothes shopping

waiting to become fearless

I am not a fearless artist
I am not a fearless writer
I am not a fearless poet
I am not a fearless mother

I am a fearless friend
until you break my heart

and then

I must wait

to become fearless again
pukwidgiethis little guy was first created in purples back in 2007, since then we’ve become great pals and this past year we went clothes shopping;)

I was thinking this morning about how often I doubt my work and how important it is to be friends with yourself
so you can keep creating forward…thank you

damn well near it…

Sometimes, sometimes the brain just burns out. Getting pushed off a cliff or forgetting where you put the car keys initiates meltdown. Fried is not the end of the line, but when ‘creating’ every grey matter ounce is more priceless than foie gras. Were I to describe a concept cereal called Shark Attack: golden-sweet, menacing shark-shaped clusters, human body-part shaped marshmallows and within moments of adding milk–the milk turns blood red, would you think me mad? How about nostril hair threading? One simply attaches delightful glimmering specialty threads from their nostril hairs. Rather than Nike appeal, “Just Do It,” we say “Just Grow It.”

Like I said, fried brain–not the end of the line but damn well near it…

Political Post

Way back in the days, when I was a ‘part’ of Prentice Hall Publishers, we in the Design Department were very excited to get our first giant Mac computers. I had a blast creating all different types of graphic posters under the guise of learning. At one point in my life, I wanted to become CEO of Ogilvy and Mather, this before the likes of Madmen…maybe I could have been Madwoman;)

boxes of words

somewhere
quicksand headfirst went I
anything, I’d offer up
myself
to dwell in my dark, sticky, shadowed corner
thin shards of light slipping the cracked walls
forgotten tavern
my place
rank humid paper, pen scratching
arrangements
laying into pulp flesh
echoes around strangers
passing through
tipping hats and money, conversing, suggesting, kissing, hiding
away
life going by the window on the 8 PM train
vacant eyes, weighted hearts
grabbing my free hand
I am alone
I am alone
no electric lights
satellites, a galaxy far, far away
no tiny faces in circles or squares
I’m interested in knotting
tempestuous nets
catching dry fish and wet spirits
what matters? asks the man sitting across from me
or is he a woman tapping long, seductive fingers on the marred wood
too dark and the voice too low because I chose it
what matters?
not answering
not answering
boxes of words at my feet
none of them comforting
what matters?

someone
another stranger has arrived
to plug in my room

MeAnn der Ingline

MeAnn der Ingline


sketched this a few months back

a white German Shepherd and a bite in the ass

A leisurely stroll on a cool morning. Anastasia Lane is tree-lined with bodacious curves like his wife’s. He is not quite sure where the road will take him. This is a new neighborhood. His heavy patrician brows, salt and peppered over time speak to old-school character. Harder working, forthright decades. Maybe. Broad shoulders once home to a leather holster a bit concave now. With a surgically fixed hip, he perseveres upright and true. A firmness beneath those size fourteens beats the pavement, nothing aged in that step. He’s thinking about life. He’s a thinker. His brain will never stop cycling. Unlike the right arm that sometimes gives him bother.

He is passing a grand home on Anastasia Lane, a compound with ornate gates around its perimeter. Behind the black iron rods–in stark contrast–a large, white German Shepherd paces. The walking man’s flecked grey eyes shift. Having owned several of the black and tan variety, he admires the GSD a moment then continues on. His mind wanders back in time–a bleaker part of NYC. Two murderers hiding out on the ninth floor. Blocking the hall’s entrance, a hulking Shepherd with raised fur and glistening canines. In the stairwell, two agents plan a regroup, when the grey-eyed agent comes up from behind. He moves to the front and simply growls more loudly than the dog. The next moments complete another story–one that becomes legendary at retiree gatherings.

Continuing along Anastasia, the grey-eyed man is passing the expansive lawn’s last wrought iron post when from behind, silent teeth sink into his upper thigh. He reacts immediately whacking the white GSD’s head with his good arm and his large hand. His trousers are torn and blood is trickling down the back of his leg. Charging across the monstrous lawn, the GSD’s owner bellows, “RELEASE, RELEASE!” The dog owner’s voice quickly turns contrite. Sweat trickles down his ample exposed chest onto his jogging suit. His combed back hair is shoe-polish black and his endlessly dark, Sicilian eyes remind the old agent of someone.

The bite only broke surface skin. Within minutes the two are sipping Sambuca together in a flamboyant Mediterranean room. Above the gilded mantel, looming larger than life hangs an oil portrait. The old agent stares through the intense frozen eyes. He’d remember that gaze anywhere. Decades ago, Enzo Rozzoni was painted into a nice jail cell with canvas bedding. The grey-eyed man helped put him there.

The old agent and the Sicilian empty their shot glasses. Then the grey-eyed man points to himself and states with a grin, “Franco Rozzoni, I knew your father. FBI–”

Smiling equally as wide, Franco Rozzoni parlays, “No wonder my dog bit you in the ass.”

The old world neighbors share a laugh over another round of Sambuca.

young dadNames were changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent;)

I’d like to extend a very Happy Birthday to my father, Vito, newly minted 85 today and by far, still the most intimidating man I’ve ever met.
In the photo above he was just entering the FBI.

sweating glass

it took an old southern rock bar band
a switch from wine to gin and tonic
and the recollection of a childhood memory
to swallow a dream starting to slip slide on thin summer ice
chilled to near perfection once, the dream
the gallant aspirations striking a spark at one’s heels
“why”
love
always there, the love
passion–an over-used word, I call into service here
I want to write about me (without you knowing)
I want to write about you (and think it’s me)
I want to create boulevards and labyrinths,
defeat, victory and the people that fall to both
friends, lovers torn apart, maybe connected in twisting alleys
plain flat features and sculpted bullshit
forbidden denizens
I want to go down the creepy hall and
have my right hand make the left open the door
but the most honest excuse
I’ll place here (bear in mind I got in very late last night)
if I don’t sit beneath the light at 4 am with a pen
I won’t be any good to anyone
so many of us have this story
we happily summon up this creative nightmare
it is not a bad dream but a wickedly feisty journey
across dark boulevards
sipping my midnight refreshing gin and tonic
the sweating glass slipping in my hand a bit
listening and watching the band
they were decent as bar bands go
around people drinking, laughing, texting
four band members
wasn’t a gig worth the pay
wasn’t worth the hot lights, sweat and beer stench
(and there’s that Jackson Brown song)

and the token rude person or two in the crowd
they–the magnificent four, simply loved what they did
not the hot lights, sweating, drunkards, texters, talkers, laughers
and
there was the flash memory of a childhood diary
a little worn book “accidentally” left out for my five sibs
so they might read
my words

Oscar E. Hornse

the other thing I adore–monsters, this guy drawn last year
happy Sunday:)

masquerade ball tonight!

MASQUERADE BALL TONIGHT!

I’m going
are you?
Harry Connick, Jr. on the grand piano
white
a shimmering pearl finish
lacquered thickly like my hair
for this glorious evening
you see
I need to shine for you
red, considered a “red” gown
too contrived
silver and black
low back, very
one of several choices laid across my empty bed
I can’t have you believing
my repressed desires
are you familiar with the rules of masquerade?
one never appears truthful
all move slowly and purposefully uttering complete nonsense
if I could slip my skin for this luminous gala I would
shine brighter
remove years of doubt to sparkle with youth’s luster
but this ball is twenty years too late
I am sorry

the dark has been a lover this decade
I only attend high parties at night
come here now, that’s right move in near this screen
I am giving up one small fabulous secret
is it quiet where you are right now?
slow your breathing and hear me, please
after midnight
when all the guests are drunk and fantasies allow magic
look across the enormous dance floor
below the swinging chandeliers

Harry Connick, Jr. is playing, “the very thought of you”
there, a black velvet curtain
open the concealed ornate doors
descend the thirty wide steps
into the expansive outdoor sculpture garden
I adore the moon here
you will too
when you arrive at the great deep fountain
there
like a mermaid beneath the irrepressible light
through the water
I will be swimming

(whispering all the delirious ways I want you)
with every breath saved

are you familiar with the rules of masquerade, my love?
one never appears truthful

scar glasses

scar glasses

a masked lady to save this piece-yes, another damsel drawn on printer paper while on a substitute teacher break-ink and pencil
she’s also made a few appearances – thank you
happy weekend!