still you do not see

experimenting with words and resolving to write more

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I need crap, but eyes can’t see it

I needed to see the stars this morning desperate to dream with my eyes open. The moon too, as I was being quite demanding. But neither moon or stars presented themselves to me. The sky was trampled beneath a mosh pit of cloud crap. I stood there disappointed and aggravated over these sky-high brighteners failing to lift me in my time of neediness. I grew pissed in fact, at the audacity of mother earth to disappoint one of her own good-natured tenants. I’m the guy trying to keep happy up, up, up, and I’m looking up, up, up at a shitty sky. Fuck, I don’t deserve this. I’m so wonderful and should have stars whenever I need them.

While sulking for a well-deserved miracle, my brilliant Dachshund speaks to me in the dark morning cold. No not really. Someone was talking though. She was saying how I don’t appreciate the stars enough to see them. The stars and moon are ever-present. They haven’t been vanquished, my vision has. My ability to see beauty on the floor when its trampled beneath a mosh pit of crap. I should close my eyes and see whatever it is I need to lift my spirits. No one, hell not even a brilliant Dachshund, can do this for me. Good as I force my heart to be, I am not that good. There are selfish thoughts brewing and I blow them out like candles on a cake I covet.

I stand in awkward silence, having just been berated by an old-school friend. I allow her voice clarity and give into the honesty of this truth. I don’t appreciate all that is. There is a gorgeousness about this place, past the mosh pit of crap. No one can take the stars or moon from my eyes. Or yours. I adore nasty Dachshund breath, even though I loathe it. Mojo is warm and sweet. We are all blessed with the brilliant night sky, regardless of what transpires daily below it. There is up and we need to focus our vision there.

Now I am happy. It is time to take my son to school. He is a driver-in-training so he’s behind the wheel. We are cruising by a student who’s walking to school. A football falls from his backpack but goes unnoticed by him. In my pleasant beautiful calm, I roll down the passenger window and call out to the boy. While doing this my anxious arm swings out, pointing to the football behind him. Here, my eyeglasses go flying out the window. My son pulls the car over at the first opportunity. I leap out and sprint to find my glasses flattened. Damn

And I thought my vision was cured after my morning epiphany. Sometimes what can you do, but suck it up, cry or chuckle.

features

features

I wrote this at 6 am but decided to post in the pm. I didn’t listen or watch live inauguration coverage. I read President Trump’s speech just awhile ago online. Next to last paragraph of his speech had an uncanny ring. Hmm, I wonder what it all means…😉

“And whether a child is born in the urban sprawl of Detroit or the windswept plains of Nebraska, they look up at the same night sky, they fill their heart with the same dreams and they are infused with the breath of life by the same Almighty Creator.”

Goodnight, Gracie…

words are for stories

I am sorry for not following your footprints
you know how we want to blaze our own trails
I’m more like the one who hides in the wild brambles along someone else’s path
stopping to pick the gathering moss from my toes
hoping my feet will stain a lovely shade of flowerless green
so I won’t need to buy socks
(too often my happy spirit falls out my sock holes)
damn, I don’t darn well
I am sorry for not visiting your fine table at tea time
sipping is a lost art and I become dumbstruck at the sight of delicate porcelain tuele
I can cower behind a steaming Starbuck’s Venti
latte, latte, latte
blow the foam
watch me smile all day pretending I’m a writer
enumerating every reason why my work isn’t on one shelf
not one, that’s why I dunk three lattes
and seek out your footprints while no one is watching
still, there is my spirit guide
she drinks naught
eats less than sips
her curved feet are bare and beautiful
her wings are tucked around her disheveled robes
she is proud of her life
passion burns hot in her breast
the embodiment of joy in simple musing
she pulls me away from the wild things that grow on another’s path
she kisses my cheek, returns my black socks patched with green threads
then she tosses me back onto the road where I started out
allowing me no words for excuses
“words,” she whispers in her gorgeous velvet-throwback voice
are for stories
spirit-guide-weditsspirit guide sketched this past weekend while at a boisterous high school wrestling tournament

when you are a storm

he will be there when you aren’t
he will know when you don’t
he will want you when you’re broken
he will stand near when you’ve fallen
he will make room for your art
he will stay when you leave
he will be there when you return
he will sing when you’re hoarse
he will befriend your inner foes
he will be calm
when you are a storm

Who

Who


ice sculpture lovers

the stingy calendar does not offer up
enough holidays with you
your presence–
gentle and loving

like satin bows wrapping me
deep eyes glistening
for the festive evergreen
not the lateness of the hour
beyond waltzing flames,
silent snowfall brightens
cracked curbs and black pavement
let’s smash all the world’s timepieces
destroy those wicked hands
against searing fireplace bowels

freeze this moment
keep it safe
you and I

ice sculpture lovers
forever locked in a glistening embrace

lady in dark/pencil

lady in dark/pencil

never too early for holiday thoughts;)
published last year, regifted this year – better:)

she likes curves as much as the next guy

she likes curves as much as the next guy
your supple lips create a secret shadow
she dreams of hiding in
those amazing shoulders of yours
burst into perfect half-moons
she adores the curve of your back
how your lats run down into a sinewy v
on your well-formed biceps
she imagines suns rising and setting
on those glutes
ah, yes those magnificent rounded caps
leading to the sweeping arcs of your sculpted tendons
she visualizes your body thrusting into forward motion
with all those powerful curves
yes, my friends
the ladies like curves too

Ra

Ra

 

this fellow sketched last year at a wrestling match

prosy things

Xaira writes prosy things. Words are tiny red ants mercilessly marching without rest, without sleep. No rejuvenation. Only midnight thoughts, caressing keys like a lover’s flesh or beating the polymer into submission–bully steward with a fidgety wordstick. She is unable to reconcile the happenings inside her body. Xaira lives on the outside looking in from safe distances. She is a tool for the thoughts she claims not to own. Speedboats powering across indecipherable notes kept in a dull black folder. One of several scattered throughout her living space.

She cannot come to terms with her prose–her prosy things. Once the shit slides down the chute, she is no longer in control. Pregnancies never realized. Incomplete humans. She has children. Carried them. Pushed them out. Loved them. Left them. Not sure where they are. Her concern over blood offspring is exclusively for plotting and outline. A mirror to direct a piece of her parceled soul. Xaira exhales for each cogent metaphor. Inhales for each selective allusion. A randomness settles in the air as the night grows thick with complex assertions and exhausted denials. Where does the writing crystallize. Conclusions and closures to build another anthill. Tunneling through the sand, fall and fall, collapsing in weak sections killing the worker-smythes of the folded, gathered and crushed.

Xaira claims no responsibility for her paradoxical musings. Any emotional attachments are not considered. She has room enough only for her creations. Her mind. At least that’s what they say but not better than her. And yet, she has grave doubts. Doubts dwelling in the bottomless corners of her round life. The cobwebs swept away, mine swept to nothingness. Beginning blankly each and every evening. It is always beneath the ever present sky up there. Best when it’s dark and void of the sun’s bright eyes. There is no honesty in the long shadows of moonlight. Xaira once had a wry sense of humor and an easy going smile. Now her fingernails are chewed, the brittle pieces catching in the rug beneath her desk. The only happiness for her is pretending there are those who care for her misunderstood, over-labored prosy things.

She hunts the black cold air. Winter will be bitter this year, the ants will struggle then disappear…

alien eyes

quick sketch last year, thank you