artless words

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by myself

I am trapped in an intolerable sameness
My mind, a weapon firing the same bullet over and over–
killing everything I wake for each day
Trapped in life’s jungle, a purgatory for lost hunters–
those who know where they should be perched–
but can never climb high enough
Earth hardens me, heaven humbles me
Trapped in between, I stare down at God and up at the devil
So much transpires, lustful living chokes out the meek
Promises break, chambers are emptied
Nothing springs back, nothing returns–

nothing, until him
His disarming gunmetal eyes–a grey so pure–
he surely has stolen pigment from Saturn’s rings
My weakest points give way to his bare arms
He becomes what I had prayed for
My spirit rekindles, like a weary grizzly in heat
Freed, my slumbering heart rises from its hibernation
His words turn my winter breath into spring air
Every moving part of his powerful anatomy, targets me–
He parlays brilliant charm and overtakes my trust

Sometime later, the camouflage fades
The sun breaks through the dense canopy
I observe him from a new position–
watching while he is unaware
My mind returns to restless oblivion
There is, I will admit here, a sense of comfort in the chaos
Around me, the entire world stampedes in unison
And I know I can survive by myself

leopard

leopard

 

piano bellies

there was this kid
long ago
she liked playin’ piano bellies
from beneath their wooden hulls
didn’t follow
couldn’t follow
pointing fingers
her little brain
had its own direction
above her eyes
the strings
pianos and buttermilk
churned in glass jars
along the highway of years
loaded with orange cones
white lines
not creating
but moving
just the same
just the same
she was no different

peace wish

peace wish

 

rivers of white v2

I don’t sleep the way I used to
in cool twists and quiet spells

I can’t possibly go up the tall stairs to my bedroom
without releasing the weight of my fingers into another space
my hands will push letters
rivers of white will burst outside my mind

I will say things I would not do
I will do things I would never say
caught in between
like a sturgeon and the silt

words as floppy as fishes
swim upstream to spawn
if not completely undone by the journey
will develop into erstwhile muses
then swim back in the other direction

sturgeon

sturgeon

art created last year for an illustrated project

this is a writing piece from last year
I’ve been going through some of my earlier writing
revising the pieces that can be salvaged
many are not wonderful and must be left to
drown in their owner’s ick;)
thank you

“river of white” is actually an old publishing term describing the white spaces created between words on a page

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

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

boxes of words

somewhere
quicksand headfirst went I
anything, I’d offer up
myself
to dwell in my dark, sticky, shadowed corner
thin shards of light slipping the cracked walls
forgotten tavern
my place
rank humid paper, pen scratching
arrangements
laying into pulp flesh
echoes around strangers
passing through
tipping hats and money, conversing, suggesting, kissing, hiding
away
life going by the window on the 8 PM train
vacant eyes, weighted hearts
grabbing my free hand
I am alone
I am alone
no electric lights
satellites, a galaxy far, far away
no tiny faces in circles or squares
I’m interested in knotting
tempestuous nets
catching dry fish and wet spirits
what matters? asks the man sitting across from me
or is he a woman tapping long, seductive fingers on the marred wood
too dark and the voice too low because I chose it
what matters?
not answering
not answering
boxes of words at my feet
none of them comforting
what matters?

someone
another stranger has arrived
to plug in my room

MeAnn der Ingline

MeAnn der Ingline


sketched this a few months back

Forget Waldo, I’m Looking for Someone Else…

I’m looking for a girl-a young girl. She’s about 4’5″ tall, brown eyes and sports a mussed shag. Chances are she’ll have scabby knees. She’ll most likely be wearing a blue, white and green plaid shirt. Last seen she was riding her bicycle. The stingray is like a vintage sports car in restoration. The metal frame is an odd hue-a sort of sepia puking-up orange color. The seat is banana-shaped and covered in plastic leopard. The girl is one of those tomboy types. And other than to say she’s tough and possesses a sort of indomitable spirit there isn’t much else to dissect. Don’t forget to look up in the trees because she could be hanging out there. Don’t pass by large mounds of dirt without searching either-she loves the stuff and will most likely blend in. She is a fearless kid who has a take charge attitude and a ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ smirk. If you should find her you may approach and say ‘hi’. Her name is AnnMarie and she is never at a loss for words. Oh, but don’t mess with her little sister, ’cause AnnMarie will kick your ass.
Me and Do little(I’ve been going back to older posts and placing images in some, I apologize if some posts load a little slowly-I’m gettin’ a handle on this photo thing and learning to use other apps to make pretty collages…fearless AnnMarie would be able to help me out. I must find her!)