editing

fake flowers in an outdoor garden I’ve buried
tracks inside a puma’s paw leading outside the cave
my hands place glass beads beneath your naked feet
crush and drink the blood
too much?
tacky paper for trapping wingless appellations
where many thoughts stick then expire
rather like the spider spinning threads too thin for binding
I am here, always in your black places
thinking on a bridge, crossing soil to sand
’tis a fine thing to sleep construct with glass balloons
bursting when I wake
inside my lava chest, a torrent of hot ash
running the length of my breast and tangling my legs
I will return to my chilled sheets at moonrise
rebuild the span of me, you have not yet found
only the tunnel to my nightmares is wide open

emma

“ROME – Emma Morano, at 117 the world’s oldest person who is also believed to have been the last surviving person born in the 1800s, died Saturday at her home…she had stopped breathing in the afternoon while sitting in an armchair at her home in Verbania, a town on Italy’s Lake Maggiore…”

will I turn into an old woman
who chatters about birds
while fondling my thin paper hands
weathered timelines
repeating fond memories
will this make me
like other old women
who have taken to soft chairs
with hard backs, 
curving spines straight as possible
am I to gaze upon wisp sails of clouds
by a humble lake house in need of repair
a shawl
hope I don’t
cover my bony shoulders in a shawl
while bobbing on a front porch with room enough for two rockers
will I hear soothing cricket songs in the empty silences
of my own making
the voice articulating from my throat
let it not scratch like an eviscerated cat
let my speech float as unpolished clarinet notes
playing a backyard symphony
will there be foggy mirrors and tarnished hair pins
and dutiful visits
will they one day listen to my sleeping words
promise their consciences
to lay down these musings between antiqued pages
cloth-bound and closed
so we can remember her
will I stare at the dying trees
and imagine
worn paintbrushes against a diluted prussian green sky
will I exaggerate the view
for the sake of beautiful words
if tomorrow is my end
against the cerulean canvas
where I paint myself
may I be remembered as more
than just an embossed name on a closed book

swing dancer

I’m working on a new writing project – not sure what it will shape into. I’m pushing things around and returning to some older posts (nervous about what I might find). If I discover any piece worth salvaging, I’m going to do my best to attempt improving its lyrical quality and meaning. Thank you.

exposing myself

Burbage’s Globe
Aerial fly-bar
Frozen pond
Grassy slope
Low-rent stage in high-rent district
Chipped pedestal
Monkey barrel
Bar
Coffee house
Social media
Lemonade stand
Wet inked
Newsprint
Periodical slickened
Dick Blick canvas
#!*#**!!##**
Lincoln Center
Mind
Street corner
Library room with one transom
Long pier
Short pier
Mountain top with foot-warmer
Dream
Convention hall with stadium seating
Conference hall with folding chairs
Above a deli
Below him
Bareback ride across sunset primed sand
Charlie’s Angels’ intercom
Amphitheater
Anywhere “O” speaks–
or suits with sneakers gleefully dance
Red carpet
Leaning on Harry’s white Steinway as he plays
I wear dazzling white gown in above image
sometimes gown is gorgeous emerald
on rare occasions–blood crimson

Sydney Opera House
Basement studio
a few of the the many places I pretend my words and art expose themselves

are there enough pages

are the chambers of your heart sliced thin
with enough pain between the parchment
to make you an interesting read
have the edges of your soul been sharpened
despite the dull devils trying to wear them down
are those cobwebbed secrets in the recesses of your mind
sell-able
will anyone pull a star down from heaven
and slap it on your blemished skin
the thoughts that crawl up your beading flesh when lights go dim
can those fading illuminations stage a moment
amid a sun-packed universe of perfection
what makes your story
more interesting than your lover’s
will there be enough pages to sew together
after you tear your life apart
sculpt woman

’tis wrestling season, my eyes close for 2 months


I listened last night
cresting waves
you
a ship
the gymnasium floor
covered in ocean blue and harvesting gold
home advantage
there you were
every time I closed my eyes
imagining the sea
rather than watching you twist and be twisted

my heart opened them
I must be like you
brave
put myself out there
on the mat
face my fear, my folly, my foe, my friend
when did you become so you

my son

the little boy
I must one day
release into a hard world
with no soft wrestling mat beneath
should you fall
maxmy max is on the right, gold-stripe
so very difficult watching these wrestling matches
hoping none of these kids get hurt
but they do
must keep my eyes open

well, this is just freakin’ amazing

well, this is just freakin’ amazing
apparently my little book
has gone “temp out of stock”
on both Amazon and B&N
why I’d love to believe it’s selling out like Harry Potter😉
the reality probably is
because it’s a self-pub title
they don’t take it very seriously
and don’t order that many copies initially
geez
it is still available on my book’s site
loveofthemonster.com
but most folks
are going to Amazon or B&N to buy
darn this selling stuff
I’m going to start peddling door to door
so if you hear someone crying
in your hedgerow
late in the afternoon
it will most likely be me
cover-image-jpeg

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.

slow dancing in a deluge

slow dancing in a deluge
liquid arrows piercing your skin
painlessly pleasurable

everything giving in to blur
commit-less silhouettes

you could go exploring
to the ends of the earth
to the bottom of an ocean
like a wide-eyed child
the supple mind you once cherished

seeking
meaningful discovery
don’t you dare remain dry

or accept plain living
search in the rain

clear your head
wash the muck off your feet

Vilmi detail

Vilmi detail

the verse heavily edited and refurbished from last year
this detail is from a much larger painting with 12 family faces I painted several years ago at my mom’s request
Vilmi is my beautiful niece, now 15 – she is named after her Aunt Vilmi who lost her fight to lupus many years ago