My first

author-shot-full-b_w-1Well, what can I say? My moment of truth has arrived. Come mid-December, my first book filled with my heart and dreams will be out there orbiting reader-land. I can only hope it will alight upon many a curious traveler. I honestly don’t know how love of the monster will be received. I’ve created a little book (spine is just shy of 1/4″) filled with big monsters. The monsters are paired with love poems that I think best represent their personalities. So I have these passionate words married to fearsome images, other times, the images are not so fearsome, maybe a smiling, pretty ‘vampiress.’ So it’s anyone’s guess if my little book will have any bite;) At the very least it will be an interesting experiment for my off-kilter sense of humor and love of all things monster. And now I must practice what I preach. I must be as brave as I’ve taught my children to be.
Here goes…
cover-image-jpegmy exceptionally talented sister-in-art, Grace Roselli took my author photo

I wish I were him

I eat each piece, tearing apart the lines, ramrodding through the verbiage to find the golden rabbit. Dissecting the words, vivisecting the pulp flesh to get at the blood.
He’s so popular and I’m at a loss to explain this to my heart. Clearly he’s dug into term universe, uncovered buried gems in the trove. My eyes follow along waiting for an aha moment which I believe imminent. I continue whooshing pages beneath my flippant index finger. I’ve even welcomed a paper cut to my writing hand, my sketching fingers and if that’s not love and appreciation I don’t know what is.

Have I become jaded here, to take from this writer his every success? To deny him entry to my pathos. All these heavy-lashed eyes who cut their hearts on their emotional skins find him not only aha but voilá too. Have I grown distant, out of touch with those in near circles, the ones I stand outside of but near enough to see shapes. Really a square is what I am, too old for the shit of jumping, thumping and humping. (let’s see if that catches on like chew and screw, or her whale tail is riding high). God, when did I become such a bummer.

Gratification the millisecond glazed eyes puncture letters and back lit brains string ‘em together to chow repurposed cinema kernels. 
It’s sugar free instant pudding with no pudding skin, what the hell, the floppy sugar skin is the entire delight. Lambasted with social medium, no large, just fucking medium and you have to hit that sweet spot. Like his words, the sweet spot, he’s got it covered with a giant manhole cover.

There are lines I read now, not his, but other minds. Mind you – was I to have the exact same words in a tumbler, I could never spill out what they gloriously let flow and have us swallow greedily in want of more steaming rum on frigid nights when we’re alone with our bored hands. These exquisite things to be viewed, fondled, touched then returned behind their velvet ropes.

I grabbed from the money shelf for pretty books. His is a very pretty one. Books I sometimes buy to impress others with my vertical color collection. The truth if I may be honest with you. I don’t always read them, only some, the pretty ones. I’ve placed his words on the pretty shelf because I want to remember what I don’t know. I want to recall my head falling into a tailspin. My bones neatly following in a jerking motion. My fingers in my mouth licking my wounds the paper cuts pretty books give me.

I must be honest with myself.
I must be honest with you.
I want to be honest with him.
There are words I will never write and thoughts I will never have.
There is genuine fakeness in so much.
Even Me. Even Me. Even Me.
I don’t like the words.
But still I am wishing
I were as creative.
Still I am wishing
I were him.
sasquatchMy time is drawing near, where I will be critiqued more than usual. I’ve never read much poetry before. Of late, it’s all I do read. There are so very many spectacular and amazing writers out there – mind blowing really. And on a rare occasion, there is one, I don’t quite grasp why their words resonate with the success they do. This leads me to believe and realize, it is me. I’m the one without my finger on the pulse. And I need to continue learning. Also, I must be ready to cry, because we are all entitled to our opinions. In my heart, it’s not about the popularity, it’s the staying power. It’s creating something that doesn’t pluck a chord but strings a harp when one needs to hear such music…
Big Foot drawn last year for illustrated project

apologies for the cussing, sometimes there are no more perfect words than the most worst imperfect kind;)

the oily well

one of those old feathered quills
dripping in my head
ink dunking into a black oily well
viscous stuff not surface shiny
afraid to tip my toe and get it chewed off
a split brass nib

spears the wilding fish unable to escape
though the winged frogs often do

my heart, another matter
inside that pump house
nothing with hooks to grab onto

only
worn stuffed animals with missing parts
and mismatched broken
crayons

southpaw warrior

southpaw warrior

Ominous Offenders

Yesterday,
the wind here was like the ocean –
bullying gusts rolled into tormenting waves
The confused sky was yellow-grey
It might have been monsoon midnight over the skeleton coast
Animated by the electrified air,
stoic garbage cans turned into ominous offenders –
their tight-lipped mouths pried open
by Mother Nature’s fists
Twisted secrets and crushed dreams spilled out
Concealed leftovers laid bare for all to see
Efforts were made
to reclaim the whispers – hide the evidence
restore the perfect order
On a calmer day,
those locked mouths should remain shut

ominous offender

crypticisms

Props: full-length mirror, office chair

Characters: a. (person sitting in chair), b. (person sitting in mirror)

Setting: someone’s basement studio

Time: night closing in

a.  well?

b.  what?

a.  c’mon, let’s not play that game, you know what I want

b.  I simply can’t do it. it’s not anymore complicated than that

a.  I’m so tired of your lame, cryptic responses

b.  that makes two of us

a.  see right there, another jewel of junk

b.  okay, now you’re hurting my feelings. I think–

a.  whoa, let’s not be creative and start thinking

b.  (begins chewing inside of mouth and rolling chair backwards)

a.  (grinning, dark eyebrows clearly arching upward) alright, let me change topic before you roll away sobbing. let’s move from why you write what you do or what you don’t. there see, I threw you a cryptic bone. let’s talk monsters. why do you make them?

b.  (stares down at feet, shifts in chair) I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to like it

a.  ah, more CRYPTICISMS. let me make it easier for you. do you create these silly creatures from your brain, your fingers, your ass or your feet? (smirking) I noticed you were looking at your feet to answer the last question

b.  you’re just plain mean, you know that. that’s where the monsters are. that’s where they come from.

a. (clearly exasperated) what do you mean?

b. EXACTLY! (laughing)

at that very moment moonlight breaks through studio window. b.’s fingers grip chair armrests, forehead begins sweating, long coarse hairs rise through skin, vertebrae start popping out shirt back, cackling–voice growing deeper and deeper, bulging muscles burst through clothing

a. WHAT! (tears of hysteria pouring out panicked brown eyes)

b. (stands erect, now towering 8 feet, walks toward mirror)

a. DON’T DO IT! The shards will shred your feet and then you’ll have no one to talk to (manages a small laugh)

b. (lifts mirror with one curved finger, smashes it on floor then leaps through studio door)

…and in the black night, desperate howling echoes to the moon and into Hudson Valley…
shunk

 

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

that I cannot do

Tell me how
you make it look so easy
They follow you like puppy dogs
that, I cannot do
I’m the one in the corner
watching all the tails wag
If we were in Rome
they’d be your dancing harem
I’d be off in the market
flattening papyrus
or washing sand from between my ink-covered toes
head wrapForlorn
drawn today while subbing

Homage to Doctor Moreau

“The crying sounded even louder…. It was as if all the pain in the world had found a voice.”

“For everyone the want is bad. Some want to go tearing with teeth and hands into the roots of things, snuffing into the earth.”

“An animal may be ferocious and cunning enough, but it takes a real man to tell a lie.”
insane lioness singerQuotes from the transformative pen of H.G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

my creature gal created about 3 weeks ago with no hard-core animalistic intent

mockery II: a plain amazon


it wasn’t you
it was the giant girl with the giant hair down to her backside
it was the girl who primped for an hour
trying to redeem something she couldn’t find in a mirror
for some reason that girl wore heels too, six feet plus
but later in the dark
stripped of the night’s magic
and several gin & tonics
she
disappeared
come daylight, she was still an amazon
but a plain one

hairzillaThis ‘lovely’ image has made its way around a post or two. Geez, good thing we grow up. Now, I think if I saw this girl coming at me, I’d run in the opposite direction. Luckily, the hair and the girl eventually learned how to relax and both managed a boundful leap into adultness. Today, she tells her kiddies the very same…