Odysseus would have been in serious trouble

Sometimes you just have to digress from yourself when getting too serious about “shit.” Today, I had a flash piece nearly written and planned on “tapping” the pub button later. This morning, a friend’s “quickie” email changed my direction. Over the last few months, I’ve been focusing on a hopeful self-publishing project, worrying about people in my life (many Italian, some elderly, but you won’t get me to say that) and getting a first born off to college.

In this catalyst email, my friend, a few years older and oh, so much wiser asked if I’d intended a “double-entendre” in my blog’s revised subhead: anntogether mashing art, writing and head. In my own “head,” it presented a humorous image. My skull smashing the wall when I–as so many of us do–am at a loss for an idea, completion of a thought or self-approval of a sketch. However, in my friend’s insightful message she mused the word “head” can mean so much more.

And you know, I’d forgotten. A plethora of lovely terms (thank God for the Urban Dictionary…) have additional meanings when painted with fodder color. “Head” is one of these words that had slipped off my risqué “radar.” I’m not sure when this happened as I often attempt to be so damn clever. Experimentally, I bounced my use of the word “head” off my fifteen-year-old son. Upon hearing the subhead, he excitedly exclaimed in his big-bicep teen voice, “Mom, are you  kidding? Change that right now!” Here I thought I was becoming a sophisticated writer in my use of spicy language and suggestive scenarios.

In closing: Odysseus would have been in serious trouble if I had been his mom. You are only as clever as you think your are. There should be listening devices planted in high schools. Employ at least one smart friend on your payroll. Laughing “hard” at yourself is “good medicine.” I am a “fucking” idiot sometimes. I laughed very “hard” this morning and “it felt really good.”

“The End”

“I think women and seamen don’t mix.”–Marge Simpson as she was about to board a ship to Skull Island

baby mask

I was thinking a baby mask hanging over fire might work here:)-created last year using pencil, marker and “head”;)-thank you for indulging me

what are you

you share things you’ll never say
you say things you’ll never do
you are a writer
you covet the people behind the lies
your hungry lips crave their nourishing minds
you are a reader
thoughts shove down your fingers like garbage disposals
you sadly acknowledge huge amounts of crap
you are a writer
you bulldoze the landfill to uncover their trash
you desire arousal sleeping in their dreams
you are a reader
you beg dark thoughts to channel sensual tongues
you choke wordless nightmares to asphyxiation
you are a writer
you fearlessly divulge intimate details
without pause, you breathlessly seek their approval

you are a –

what are you
do you have a choice

skeleton stallion

skeleton stallion

sketched this guy last year while on a school subbing lunch break

heightened hubris

no one grinning over my shoulder
down here

watching me etch letters into mold
my sensitive nose, a poor man’s vision replacement
vague air under-pacing
the fast fuzzy spider spinning by the lamp
shut off
sun blazing passed the cheap plastic slats
diagonal down so the mower men stop looking in
though one dude is always smiling, he’s so happy riding his bitchin’ machine
Goddamn, I swore no more potty mouth musing
hope naughty interpretations blossom into prescient ponderings
I read Bukowski
depending on my mood
the man scares the shit out of me with his fast forward funk
or he shatters my drunken heart
clearly his was crushed long ago maybe before he knew himself
his manmind discovered a bolder way to tap that
I imagine Charles Bukowski
not a Charlie, never a Chuck, that would agitate
I know a Robert who is not a Bob
only very Robert, Robert most in his complicated blue eyes
like me, never an Ann even in pixie haired days
definitely not an Annie, though most women confident enough for the “ie” are quite spectacular
bubbly and honest
I am neither
at this particular moment
I’m not writing from my head
I fear

you might not come back
and I would be forced to dig lower than Hell’s hole (she laughs)
I do not sleep very well
the brain

she can be such an ass
I promised her not to become one of those
with heightened hubris
speaking in tongues about only mine

when this wicked whacked world is shaking

God, please don’t let the world shatter, shatter, shatter deep
like Charles Bukowski’s heart when it’s breaking



I made her, if I spoke with her she might tell me she is sad, she wouldn’t have chosen hair to hang in her eyes though she does appreciate inner peace tucked beneath snake scales