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;)


bakery special

the first time I saw you
I loved Rocky
you didn’t know that
you were like Stallone
but much taller, good for my tallness
I was working behind the bakery counter at the mall
you caught me staring
I looked for you after that
next time, I caught you staring
and then
there you were one day
waiting for me at the bakery counter
I was so nervous when you asked for my address
I wrote ‘Cannoli-al’ instead of Colonial
you wore a big, bright football jacket that fit your gleaming black Mustang
I thought I hit the jackpot
you thought you’d use me
I thought again, the joke is on you
I’m not that special

Smiling Clown

Smiling Clown

Clown done a few months back and previously published.
Poem goes way back to high school DAZE 😉

A Crime of Crayons

A Crayon Crime

It seemed in 1973 everyone in school had 64 crayons – everyone – except me. On the day in question, desperation had clouded my judgement. It had corrupted my creative sensibility. I was ten at the time and in dire need of 64 colors. I had Crayola’s 24 pack which included colors for growing robust apple trees, fluid blue skies and abstract butterflies. It wasn’t enough. I needed more pigment. I coveted the built-in sharpener too.

Crayola BoxOne day while shopping with my mother and 2 other siblings, fate waxing at my feet, divine intervention struck. On this ominous morning, I glanced down at the beige store tiles. My disbelieving eyes engaged my sleeping brain. My little fingers snatched up the crumpled dollar on the floor. Much to my horror I discovered it was one-half of a paper dollar, and the other half was nowhere in sight. Nothing mattered. My heart was jolting in 64 magnificent colors. My brain was a prism of planning. “Art cannot be stopped,” my greying conscience defended. While Mom busied herself shopping and shepherding my two younger siblings around cans of tomatoes, I cleverly rolled the dollar into a cylinder.

There wasn’t much time. Grocery cart loading for a family of eight was nearly done. I told Mom I needed the bathroom. I flew to the school supply section, grabbed Crayola’s 64 box then sprinted to the register hoping to make an express purchase. I handed the masterfully rolled dollar to a young cashier. I didn’t know how much the crayons cost and I didn’t wait. I grabbed my fabulous box and bolted toward the exit doors.

In hindsight, I should’ve selected the silver-haired cashier. The swift employee ran after me as did my mother. My crime was foiled on the spot. I had to return the crayons. I had to write a letter of apology. And, I was grounded.

So there I was stuck in my room with just 24 crayons and two weeks to think about all the colors I didn’t have.
Crayon Crime