Myrtle Lee sang with a barefoot saunter…

New flash piece, character drive and I do love Myrtle Lee. “He relished Putty Cat’s pancakes flipped in the tiny space devoured up by her curves.”
I’m again so very honored to be included in NowThenMagazine, in their wonderful WORD LIFE section. Thank you.

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know, knowing, knew

I don’t ever know what I mean
I don’t ever mean what I say
does that help
if you know me
you’d know
I miss knowing
not knowing what it was
I never knew
about you
I hope you’re following
me right now
are you
or is this too
confusing
this not knowing
makes me a bit blue
not stockings around the neck blue
just sad, quite sad
knowing you’re out there
floating
makes things better in here
“clever girl”
that’s what the hatted Jurassic Park hunter utters
before velociraptors enjoy their steak tartar
let’s backup
start over
I’m tired of searching
not knowing

I’m tired of marching forward
time does not play fair

can you follow this
me?

I speak in tongues
forked

no one can know
not even me
follow?
or are you as confused
as I am

swirl skating

swirl skating

’tis Fried Day and the brain has not escaped the frying pan fire this week – happy weekend – thank you

prosy things

Xaira writes prosy things. Words are tiny red ants mercilessly marching without rest, without sleep. No rejuvenation. Only midnight thoughts, caressing keys like a lover’s flesh or beating the polymer into submission–bully steward with a fidgety wordstick. She is unable to reconcile the happenings inside her body. Xaira lives on the outside looking in from safe distances. She is a tool for the thoughts she claims not to own. Speedboats powering across indecipherable notes kept in a dull black folder. One of several scattered throughout her living space.

She cannot come to terms with her prose–her prosy things. Once the shit slides down the chute, she is no longer in control. Pregnancies never realized. Incomplete humans. She has children. Carried them. Pushed them out. Loved them. Left them. Not sure where they are. Her concern over blood offspring is exclusively for plotting and outline. A mirror to direct a piece of her parceled soul. Xaira exhales for each cogent metaphor. Inhales for each selective allusion. A randomness settles in the air as the night grows thick with complex assertions and exhausted denials. Where does the writing crystallize. Conclusions and closures to build another anthill. Tunneling through the sand, fall and fall, collapsing in weak sections killing the worker-smythes of the folded, gathered and crushed.

Xaira claims no responsibility for her paradoxical musings. Any emotional attachments are not considered. She has room enough only for her creations. Her mind. At least that’s what they say but not better than her. And yet, she has grave doubts. Doubts dwelling in the bottomless corners of her round life. The cobwebs swept away, mine swept to nothingness. Beginning blankly each and every evening. It is always beneath the ever present sky up there. Best when it’s dark and void of the sun’s bright eyes. There is no honesty in the long shadows of moonlight. Xaira once had a wry sense of humor and an easy going smile. Now her fingernails are chewed, the brittle pieces catching in the rug beneath her desk. The only happiness for her is pretending there are those who care for her misunderstood, over-labored prosy things.

She hunts the black cold air. Winter will be bitter this year, the ants will struggle then disappear…

alien eyes

quick sketch last year, thank you

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

so sorry, forgot it’s International Happy Day

My friends,
Please accept my humble apologies (typing this while broadly smiling ;)). This morning, I did not realize it is the International Day of Happiness. I’m sorry if this morning’s post made you blue. So presented here for your viewing pleasure, a goofy smiling fella.
am:)
fulcrum

restroom ruminating

Leave it to a small desk
propped in the corner of a long hallway
vanishing to a point
In this bland corridor
classroom doors will soon close
after the cantankerous bell tolls
I feel a bit like Tiny Tim Cratchit
or Cinderella (before the change)
Sitting in a lonely little chair
wishing I was near dead embers
rather than sitting sentry by kiddie restrooms, Period 2
Time to dwell
Time to write
Time to think
Time to ask security guard Frank
what’s going on with his Florida dream
He holds out hope for cheaper citrus
At the far end of the cinder block
a gaggle of giggling girls
is headed outdoors for gym
now called PE
Like revised timeline terms
once AD (Anno Domini/”in the year of our Lord”) and BC (Before Christ)
now BCE (Before the Common Era) and CE (Common Era)
We’re living commonly now
Did you know?
I can see through the bolted steel fire door
the rain has stopped
Today while heading home from subbing
I learned not to drive beneath trees with the sunroof open
after a rainstorm
Geez,
you’d think with all the time I’m spending back in school lately
I’d be a lot smarter by now 😉
sasquatcheven Big Foot finds little rocks to sit on
this guy created last summer with Tombow marker and Prisma pencil

southpaw warrior

southpaw warrior
wielding a just sabre
for righteousness
unsheathed in sparking white
gaining action by wind arc
inked blood contract
philosophies demanded
upon lofty principles
enforced with pride
beliefs carved upon singular roads
will not lead
southpaw warrior
to peace

Who

Who

digging deep

Often times we strive for deeper meaning
exchanging heartbeats for assurances
in our relationships
in our careers

in our beds
in our thoughts
in our art
in our spirituality

often times we must content ourselves with just scratching the surface
realizing the deeper we dig
the more heartbeats flutter away
and

the less light we see from above
lashestake for example this character, not sure where she came from and didn’t think about it while creating her yesterday…