do you (think you) know me

do you (think you) know me
inside my words
on top of my art
are your elbows leaning at your side(s) as you read along
do they comfort you
your elbows, not my word(s)
not my art
maybe you’re only getting to know me
if you don’t know me, (I dislike math)
these thing(s) xx2f (art+writing) are no source of comfort
rather(!) representational of all I don’t know

I do know–if we lived closer
we might be (great) friends

I am told I smile most of the time

when I write dark(ly)
or when I write in darkness
(lights are sleeping. I’m not)
I grin
unintentionally
like mad grimacing
once long long ago in a generous glass grocery store window of epic proportions I spied my reflection she was smiling. I wasn’t happy

I want you to be comfortable
inside my words
on top of my art
with your elbows at your side(s)
and tell me something
about yourself
I might even get to know what it is I don’t know
about myself

PS (person singing)
when we meet on that special day
in that secret place (where I wait for you)
we will smile at one another
I stop looking in a generous glass grocery store window of epic proportions to see another smiling face
my personal shopper

wooden horse

See how the wooden horse enters the scene–
on a silent dolly from stage right it gallops
Do you fancy Montague or Capulet
The show goes on, ending when the star-crossed lovers die
Isn’t that beautiful, how the royal velvet curtains cradle the set
All hand-stitched by Venetian cobblers, who were bored out of their minds–
stringing mandolins with leather shoestrings
The stiff horse has seen better days
Its low-budget cedar ass is splintering
Someone hiding in the pit had to be mindful of costs
The wooden equine doesn’t even belong on this set
The driver missed his cue for Cinderella this morning
In her pink world, no one commits suicide–
except maybe the mice, upon learning they are no longer stallions–
and that their playhouse curtains are a machine-stitched polyblend

animated refuse

this character sketch reminds me of an ornery Shakespearean spirit, I couldn’t tell you why

 

the shit beneath the fridge

This is the question. I won’t beat it under the fridge, the place you’ve been meaning to clean but never do. Why should you? It is disgusting, but who the hell sees it. My question to you, WHY? Why do you build a wall into a home, brick by brick, then let underneath the fridge go lousy. Why do I sit in this damn basement and pretend I know what I’m doing. Someday, I say it will matter. My name, is it something now, to me. It’s the birth name I was given. I play it like Cher and tweak it like Madonna, but I keep Vito and Carmella in my thoughts. Single names do not slow the world down. It is nice pretending for awhile, until the day arrives when you pound your head on the kitchen table trying to scare up the next big creative idea. Your throbbing skull is parallel with the floor–you see disgusting, grey fluffy shit under the fridge.

This is the question. You decide you’re going to clean beneath the fridge. WHO? Who will move the icebox from the spot where its metal weight has rooted down the corners. How much crap is actually under there. Is any of it alive. Does it matter. You will get a burly friend to help you. Or a thin-armed neighbor with a hand truck. Perhaps, emboldened by the decision to clean, you decide to pull its immensity away from the wall all by yourself. Crap. The wall behind the fridge will also have to be cleaned. That’s right. There is always something you didn’t plan for. But while the frigid monstrosity is vulnerable, it makes the utmost sense to scrape the wall scum off too. The fridge won’t miss its 5 o’clock shadow.

This is the question. You’ve gone and done it. Beneath the fridge is as fresh as a baby’s bathed bottom and you have accomplished a grand feat. There is power in your muscle and clean pride in your dirty soul. You can take on the world or any number of small creative endeavors. These little bursts of artful energy might just have walls of scum behind them. Imagine how you might feel, reaching those walls. WHY? Why didn’t you just clean beneath the damn fridge all those years ago when you first noticed the shit beneath it.
black-vampalienAnd this person (who has admittedly not cleaned beneath her fridge) has created vamp/alien no 4 – dark as a fridge’s underbelly, where no sun can shine

 

Friday-fornicate or post

they say Fridays are good for fornicating but not for posting on Social Media
SM aside
I cannot care
the words pressing against my brain are going to burst my fucking capillaries
if I don’t shoot them out my itchy trigger fingers I’m doomed
torment is attempting to snake up my spine though I adore sidling reptiles
ever since I held that gorgeous velvet albino anaconda in fourth grade
now snakes are endangered too

if it blindsides me in a gallant rush of crimson blood, I’m ready for doomed
no overwhelming fear here
when you have kids you imagine leaping in front of the gun
they live
you don’t
I’m okay with this outcome, this is life
calm collective of a natural or unnatural end
the problem
too many yanking the ripcord at both ends
I’ve know for quite some time about dying
when you live with an elderly person, it makes the idea of un-being easier
my heart has taken on a personality all its own
a tragic character in some romantic play
maybe a comedy
she fades to black, scene four
I’m not depressed
not at all
rather realistic and ready
are we climate warming, are we going Armageddon-style
shit, I guess it’s going to be hot either way
why can’t it be water
I so love swimming
there is nothing like claiming peace underwater

I vote for clean water if still available
don’t want to drown in dirty icecap overflow

Crowns:pastel

if I were a beer…

there is a case of beer bottles in my garage. it was a holiday gift. twelve special beers. the best of the best. is what the printed words say right there on the macho pretty box. the best of the best. more than the fantastic four or the magnificent seven–it’s the sublime twelve. I stare down at this charismatic hops box. twelve superb necks holding twelve superior brews. hell, what would I say if I were just one beer. this is twelve. twelve miraculous times someone mixed and poured perfect.

hmm. I said I was going to start this year with writing honestly. I’d have to think long and deep, as long and as deep as those amber necks reaching down to those chilly ales swallowed to warm the senses.

truth is one thing in the flesh, it’s a whole other liquid when brewed into words. let me start chugging here:

I don’t know where my words come from. this unnerves me a bit. it’s like arriving at a familiar place with no recollection of the ride. I don’t know what is going to happen most times I plan to write so I can never really plan anything longer than a short piece. I managed to pen ten manuscripts long ago when my brain was less fragmented, all fantasy blended with some sci-fi, all for the tween market. I don’t think my liquefied brain could pour adult long write. that would be a real challenge for me in my present glass state, though I’ve visited over thirty US states. I am not worldly. Other then crossing into Tijuana on foot back in the ’80s, and staring at bugs in Montreal’s Insectarium, my world travel case is sticker light. I am George Bailey-never left Bedford Falls.

It has taken me until now to learn how to lower the brewery simmer button. no more unnecessary boiling. life’s to short for bubbling over the vat.

if I were beer, I’d belong in a wine bottle. whatever the hell that means.

Fly Lord

Fly Lord

deliciously contagious

a mouth doused with sweet romance
is deliciously contagious
eyes bedazzled by the goodwill of others
illuminate the world
a steadfast hand that comforts the weak
can reach the Himalayan snow caps

lovers who entwine in a sincere embrace
are more satisfied than Cyber Monday shoppers
a soul refreshed by winter moonlight
will shine for eternity

a heart made of fruitcake
can never be broken

Peppermint Pigs

Peppermint Pigs

 

something about

over
under on top
this is it
that was now
wasn’t it
wasn’t it
spiraling
pack pack pack the fucking brain
round the square corners

jump the cycle
break the loop
think outside the box
that was 1990
wasn’t it
business speak
can’t speak anymore
much of anything
who was that glossy chick with the shiny shoes and the matte business card
baby spit on the shoulder
now dirty sports uniforms

something about files or writing
art no it was art
crap family coming this weekend no next
was there a party I was planning for someone I love
it’s the school thing he needs to be at she told you
what? what was I doing

oh yeah
the studio I was filing my art
away for something
wait I’m in the wrong room

where the hell did I put my studio
there’s no food in the fucking fridge
social-ing on social media isn’t always
walk yourself Mojo
I ain’t got the time
I gotta go drop some books by airplane
purple roomI consider my childhood bedroom – my first studio. There at the table is where I pretended to be, Kolchak the Night Stalker. The wall “rainbow” was my first mural. I’d give anything to reclaim my original Breyer horses there on the shelf. My Clairol makeup mirror – geez, I’ll never get that close again to a magnifying mirror with lights, and my little budgie hanging in his little cage – I often let him fly around.

Please pardon, but I’ve been back cleaning old posts. Many I’m not too pleased with, so I’m reworking these older writing pieces while the brain currently in my possession is on vacation.

little low, high heeled dude for halloween

be who or what you dream
but just for today;)
top-headthis little guy makes a black and white appearance in my illustrated book of love verse
love of the monster available 12.15.16, maybe sooner:)

Happy Birthday to my beautiful mother, 81 years young today