in pursuit of abandonment

Jelly is a tattoo artist
in pursuit of abandonment
A hermit living inside flesh
she no longer recognizes
Primitive symbols characterize
lack of faith inked between her thighs
where once laid a man
His powerful chest mapped with wings
and of her hands
failed tools in a sterilized world
Beauty once pronounced itself
her skin rippling with pleasure
of his touch
of their flight
how high they moved
clouds bursting at nothingness
artifice of design
Where fiscal movements placed flat objects of desire
on bodies desiring
husks of fake color
Meaningless and watered away
Peering into crystal rocks
the masses tattooed
trying to coverup who they are
Jelly’s body nearly blue from the cold
every follicle of flesh stabbed with pigment
her crimson heart broken from his pain, not the needles
now
naked, she lies down to die alone
with her artful hands
like elegant gloves

descending the stairs

Light enters the foyer, he hears me descend the stairs
All fourteen oak planks slammed by my humping feet
His morning routine proceeds uninterrupted
It is I who must accommodate him every morning
He yawns and returns to slumbering on the sofa
I make oatmeal the same way every day–
blueberries, pinch of peanut butter, water and a splash of almond milk
Occasionally, red strawberries
I ascend the stairs with my favorite bowl still warm from the microwave
Without fail, he follows me
He won’t make his own breakfast and I always share mine
I know he loves me
I must believe this

The urge-to-express forbids genuine rest
All who write or art would say the same
We descend the stairs daily
Make our work
Then push ourselves into the closed arms of others
If what we’ve made is enticing it will be swallowed, ingested, absorbed, eaten
A chance of being crapped out forever nipping at our heels
Still, this incredible urge compels us
If what we create each time is desirable–
they’ll climb the stairs, even fourteen oak planks, again and again

Wish I knew my writing and art were appreciated
as much as the damn dachshund loves my oatmeal

Homage Picasso/charcoal

 

 

she gotta be mine

“There’s an Old West saying that if you stole a man’s horse, you had condemned him to death…”

In 1824, I wer hung, hung out wit hemp thick as Nellie’s mane
but twice as deadly ‘n ten times as quick to ther choke
they dun hung me, dried boots ‘n all widout a reckon ‘o my side pockits
my neck it snapped ‘n dat fucker hurt sum, befer the snappin,’ not after
I dun stole a man’s horse, a white gorgiss thin’ wit sharp fetlock ‘n marble eyes
don’t know what made me do thar impulse
wuz her Godful beauty, I’m a certin
ain’t no crime in thar, stealin’ wutz perfict
do ya know wutz ’tis a see’in that Godful beauty ‘n not hold’n it
not bein part ridin’ in that sunset after dem saloon duz kick yer hide inta the sand
they dun hung me out thar, hung me out ta dry ’til I very, very disgustin’ly die, yup dem basters
black crows a diggin’ at my sockets ‘n balz

a beaten white station wagon, the last white stallion in this town
she’s in my rear view mirror, prancing on the hill
just admiring her I am
my eyes flapping faster than wicked-quick saloon doors
the white beauty of a generation long since past
men were men, at least that’s what my dad was and is
my elegant mom, remaining a woman who transcends time
so many white horses chasing down the freeway, miles of galloping herds
so many it’s impossible to believe they will ever disappear
lightning white buffaloes by the thousands
and there she is, the sexy white wagon, long and sure as sugar
Custer’s battle scars, blood-rusting her panels, but she’s still smokin’
revving that big engine, purrin’ like a puma
at times, she breathes smoke to wake the dead
I hear tiny family fannies sliding across her vinyl bench seats
all the way to the Catskills
to the Jersey shore
to Vermont’s Green Mountains where her body plays with light
my SUV is climate-controlled, too controlled
Oh, here she comes, the last unicorn
driving by, I’m a body ensconced in sealed air
stuck behind tempered glass, I can’t caress her hide
she knows nothing of tightness, she has always been free
a drop of air escapes my lungs
a grain of water falls from my eye
I feel the hangman’s noose a callin’
come ‘n git me ya dem basters
I seen dat dar white beauty ‘n she gotta be mine

painting dun painted when I be a kid, ta small fer dem dar saloons

Forgive me, dear women who were fifty

Please accept my apologies
dear women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women nurturing children in the world
when I so casually whirl my polished hair
crop top hiking up my iron-flat abdomen
Forgive me sweet ladies
you women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women rising, thin-lidded and lined
as I saunter by your commuter wheels
nearly naked, fresh breasted and easy
Will you vindicate me
kind women who were fifty
when I was twenty
for the times I fluttered my wicked lashes and smiled coyly
at anyone, maybe your lover,
perhaps your husband
I pray you absolve me
good women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women warriors scarred by life’s weaponry
if my flipping fingers and cheeky laughter
interrupt your seasoned reflection
your focus on work, on family, on meaning
on all I will not know
and can not know
until my car is stopped at a red light
and I watch myself saunter by
regretting how I never once thought of you

joy august ripsaw

Gran Reserva Limitada

Wrapped in a white T-shirt, placed in a black canvas duffel–
a travel-size Adorini humidor and his hopes.
The flirty Spanish cedar box urges him onward.
Thirteen rolled soldiers guard this carrier’s hard on with dutiful vigilance.
Bulleit Bourbon, the Frontier Whiskey sloshes beneath his crisp North Face.
Before boarding the train east, he shreds the “please” off the bottle with his Kershaw Blur.
No time for “drinking responsibly.”
The 2 am train dumps him without mercy. He lands on the stained cement.
It’s The Wild West where screaming yellow mustangs and sleek horny stallions run free. Almost.
Mile after mile of the concrete mix is near unbearable and longer running than any field he’s ever slept in.
A dusty, ten-gallon hat sits on his brain and a mass of thick dark curls protects his scalp.
While smelling out the October air for her familiar city-built skin, he maneuvers across The Great Divide.
Right now, he’s so far removed from everything he knows. Everything. Except her.
He tugs protectively at his coat making sure the chest-liner is wrapped tight.
She nearly massacred his raw heart once. Damn near killed him.
Now he is The Magnificent Seven minus six–returning for more.
But, the olive branch she extended had roots. He still believes this.
He is willing to buck the bronco one last time. One more try.
Crazy wilding thoughts move his feet too fast. Before he can check the time or look at her Upper West Side address again,
looming across the avenue–her gilded monolith of speckled granite, insurmountable steel and shatter-proof glass.
The pungent city grit reddens his green eyes. With the quick wipe of a sleeve, he makes fast business of these renegade tears.
Almost there, he strolls into a nearby shop and ducks into the restroom–like Superman before the change.
He takes a long secret tug of amber confidence and chases it back with a fistful of mint Altoids.
Returned to Almost, he’s at Her building. He closes his eyes and sucks hard at the floating air. Dreaming. Remembering.
The thought of her wet vermilion lips around a Melanio is almost too much.
But he dares not go in unprotected. Not this time. He gently removes the Adorini from the duffel.
Thirteen pricey cigars gift wrapped in a fine humidor–a peace offering.
A capital start.
She absolutely adores a fine stogie–Gran Reserva Limitada.
This, he knows for certain.
What he does not know–
Is she capable of adoring him as much as her beloved decadent tobacco.

leonada’s earring

 

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

soured opera

hey, can I talk with you
I’m running out of things to say
you must hear and listen closely
the flesh of my fingers and that of my heart have joined forces
I can no longer reach without stretching my courage so thin it snaps
my chest is sinking roots into the foundation
scripted musings taunt the white half-moons of my freshly polished nails
delirious encounters, once teeming champagne froth into the night wild
have turned out unvarnished piles of road bound snow
I need to suffocate these regrets
slow the ooze from my brain as it drowns my fading voice
please look into my eyes and see
this isn’t about us anymore
where moist lips once blindly crawled to eat delirious and chew desire
only wordless truths haunt moments of silence upon empty prop beds
I am losing conviction
I am losing dulcet wings to flying devils
the peripheral midnight blue curtains, gold sashes sweating to unbuckle
will be the last to darken the stage of my life
see there, my sweet notes slipping from your oiled parchment pages
the midnight fairy has vexed our maestro’s musical flirtations
bowing to the final call
my heavy heart pulls me below the dirty pool of my tears
suffocate these lucid impulses
tear shadow from skin so I can no longer find the moon
I deserve no last libretto
nothing but an end to this soured opera

swirl skating

swirl skating

haven’t tackled a “romantic” piece in awhile-wanted to give it a try-thank you

 

please do not leave me alone

please don’t leave me alone
with me
she isn’t always patient
often acerbic
with her
self
demanding the muse
to squat in her studio
silent so she can think
with or without a voice
outside her
self
this night is especially dark
 blustering trees their arms grabbing
wind pushes those
in his way
muse on a dead leaf
brilliant color now diminished
mottled
from overuse
the sky is howling
autumn is upon them
muse and artist
with no words or lines
thoughts in color
passed summer’s glow
dead umber like soil in shadow
ideas in flat space
wind cannot reach
muse cannot speak
senses dulled enough
to hibernate
please don’t leave me alone
I can’t think in dark caves

Shy Bear/Prisma

Shy Bear/Prisma