going backwards ain’t how growin’ goes

blue grass blew up under there, landed there, over there
you see, look here bled blue on this over here
so they sang over there, banjo’d blues ‘round those mountains
got a banjo too, but no bluegrass livin’ in these olive eyes
listen here, do you hear the weary sky humming da blues
below her womb, flesh ‘n bone spawning bitter gods
swelling wellsprings of madness
manic rivers drying, warm water shattering man-walls
cause he be screwing the planet ‘n mother earth be pissed

don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes

great grandpapa’s mighty oak just felled by climbing fire
man ‘n his man-guns knocking things ‘neath blue-blue sky
no seed sown with lead, no gilded heart embraces love 
listen here, do you hear the weary sky, how she hums da blues
she be blue, oh, so blue hummin’ above —
this mankind of ours screeching and scratching below

don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes


this piece inspired by a newly black-topped parking lot
here’s to looking up at the sky – still blue – still lovely
am:)

Recycling Experience

WE’RE NOT RUDE
WE’RE BUSY
PLEASE LET US DO OUR JOB

rubber-pink-finger points
cans, bottles—here
Gatorade empties rifled away—NO money for these

push the hair strands from your blue eyes
from your tee with the rainbow cat

rubber-pink-finger fires the final bottle
thank you, I smile
your lips don’t shift

more customers enter, I exit
with one 20—and two questions
do you own a rainbow cat?
do your blue eyes brighten when you smile?

hope you’re all managing the humidity
am:)

Missing Knuckles

I am thrilled my CNF piece, “Missing Knuckles,” was selected to be part of the amazing anthology, Death Lifespan Vol. 12, published by PURE SLUSH, independent publishers since 2010.

“I was twelve the year I noticed her missing knuckles. My perfect mother was missing the section of her pinky where there would have been ligaments, bone and a knuckle. Her right pinky was noticeably shorter than its left counterpart. And the finger with the diamond I sometimes lost my eyes in, though normal in length, was also missing a knuckle. Mom’s ring finger could only bend using the knuckle closest to the palm of her hand.

What other secrets did my mother have? What else hadn’t I noticed? She laughed when I accused her of not coming clean sooner and was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.”
excerpt from Missing Knuckles

PURE SLUSH has put together an entire LIFEspan series. These remarkable anthologies are worth checking out, and it’s always wonderful to support our independent publishers.

Thank you,
am:)
I hope you’re all managing the heat.

Grand Opening

decades through the doors
truckin’ up the steps
pushin’ at the walls

like floppin’ fishes
land-slappin’ the earth
swimmin’ up a universe

that in the end — always wins

drove by this shiny building with a sign that’s seen better pay periods –
an ironic image in the saddest way possible
after a brief photo moment, words rolled from my penny pencil

The man across the street

  just stepped up the little stairs to reach his steering wheel. This vehicle is not required for his line of work. My studio, a converted porch, faces his yellow house, his big truck. My home, rising during the Great Depression, has withstood many assaults over time. Her old bones don’t deserve to be rattled.

The sky is bright, the birds are singing, and every morning the man across the street shatters this peaceful illusion. His truck’s reverb frazzles the neighborhood, echoes through my chest. Maybe the man across the street needs the sleepy world agitated at 5:45 AM, maybe tremors make his shadow grow.

If someday he should acknowledge the next phase of life, I pray he doesn’t buy a bigger truck. I don’t want to become another person in this burning world who adds more noise to the hate. I dislike the man across the street. I do not hate him. I will admit, however, to hating his fucking truck.

I painted this a few months ago. Reference taken from a photo of Chris Lee as Dracula. Thought this image was somewhat fitting for this piece:)

I hope you’re all keeping cool.
am:)

A Conversation with Mom (Post Stroke) Through a Closed Nursing Home Window During Covid




Mom — we don’t need phones, you can hear me through the window just fine.
 
She picks up the phone on her rolling table and holds it upside down to her ear.  
Dad is gambling on my shoulder.
   
Mom — Dad is not on your shoulder. Look, I’m not using a phone and you can hear me just fine.

My teeth are falling out. This phone isn’t working.

Mom — your teeth are not falling out.
 She continues talking into an upside down landline.
Mom — please put the phone down. 
The receiver twists in her hand.I release an invisible string, a white balloon floats away.
Mom — stop knocking the phone on the table.
Mom — please look at me here standing outside your window.


She built a family with her bones.
 Another balloon floats away.
Mom — would you put the phone down please. I knuckle the glass. 

Mom — for the love of God please put the fucking phone down.


Butterflies flying overhead, so many more this spring. The year of my daughter’s mermaid birthday party I didn’t stare skyward looking for wings that weren’t there. I smiled in my cleverness at having covered our dining room walls with iridescent paper and hanging foil starfish from the ceiling with aqua crepe paper. The room became a magical ocean.

Mom — please stop hitting the phone on the table. 
A wheelchair is talking to Mom’s ass and if she leans too far forward, her tongue might fall out.
Mom — hang up the phone.
Mom — Mom 

I’ll see you tomorrow.
I hang up my pretend phone.



Sometimes, there is nothing more to add than the conversation.
Here’s to Fridays fringed with warm wine, good and red.

am

Rock Skipping

My studio runs parallel to a quiet side road that springs to life when school lets out. Watching the kids leap into summer often makes me think back. Long ago, but ever present, the silly girl who I’d like to smack in the head.

image above – me in my early 20’s – ah, the makeup-less, cover-up less time of long ago:)

hope you’re all managing the heat
am:)

The Bowl of Clavicles


The Bowl of Clavicles

Late last night, my stocky papa who smiled and made great Italian meals died
This morning my father’s steel face melted into my mother’s collarbone

Early this morning, my fierce father died quietly in his sleep
Moments later my mother’s tear-laden eyes poured into my collarbone


A sad piece of subtle strength and perseverance dedicated to this day of Memorial tribute.

am

1975

In 1975 and for many years afterward, I wanted nothing more than to look and sing like Bobbie Gentry, and emulate Carl Kolchak, the mildly insane journalist, who investigated supernatural crimes while wearing a goofy smile and a slanted straw hat.

Today, I continue to play my favorite Gentry album Ode to Billy Joe while the guitar sitting in the corner of my studio listens along. And I strive to pile my hair higher than is normal.

As for becoming a boots-on-the-ground monster-chasing reporter, I daily arm myself with art supplies to track down creatures, and I type prose on a typewriter keyboard. The wide-brimmed straw hat resting on a pile of books in my studio sees action when the sun is out.

Maybe, I did become who I wanted to be all along. Maybe…


Pencil sketch of Bobbie Gentry done about two months ago. I continue to use a giant Ticonderoga pencil. I’m not allowing myself to get into details using sharpened points and varieties of leads in the hopes of focusing on shape and form.

I’ve not done much writing these last few months. I’ve been madly creating monster collage mini-paintings like Shunka Warakin (below) for the upcoming UFO Fair in Pine Bush, NY. Such fun:)

I hope you are all doing well.
am:)

“to live”

A March 2024 sketch done with a ridiculously large Ticonderoga preschooler pencil
“Little Karole” would blossom into a six-foot-tall, gorgeous woman who’d live an amazing life as a stained glass artist. And much later, she’d become my beautiful mother-in-law.

perhaps it is my 60 years of age inspiring the words below, it could be that the majority of my new friends, most in their 70’s and 80’s, continue to open my eyes in every direction but down

“to live”

I don’t believe the phrase “to live” means escaping our burdens

I don’t believe “to live” means transforming ourselves or collecting accolades

I don’t believe “to live” includes acquiring wealth or building empires  

I don’t believe “to live” means ignoring the past or focusing on the remaining years as we age

I never believe “to live” is expressed through curated media or grinning images

I do believe “to live” creates dubious comparisons of one against the other

I do believe the phrase “what it means to live” suffocates dreams before they begin

I do believe “to live” finding strength in our efforts amid others indifference

“to live” brave in our ‘individualness’ while accepting others in theirs

“to live” caring for ourselves so we can care for others

 “to live” stepping forward when we’ve lost someone behind us

And I always believe “to live for today” when it is tomorrow

am:)