Morning Sickness
I sometimes wake up feeling remorse. It usually diminishes fairly quickly but I wonder how I’ll feel tomorrow when I wake up and you’re still gone…
there are no postcards
in the mail…
autumn wind
Crosswalk
I find myself standing at the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, waiting in the glow of a streetlamp, the scantest hint of snowflakes floating down through its rays. I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching but it’s not the bus. Headlights drift by… taillights vanish into the night. Salt from the road crunches underfoot. The hint of a breeze chills my ears. I pull my hat down and turn up my collar. The lights change. Now I’m on the corner of Don’t Walk and Walk with no bus in sight. This is confusing. I start to walk.
a caterpillar
makes his way across the street…
progress takes time
Life in the Hood
Everyone’s heard about the Big Bad Wolf but he’s old now. His tail drags on the floor and his whiskers have turned grey. He’s constantly being picked on by little pigs while he sits idly in his rocking chair looking at pictures of wild boar in an old copy of National Geographic. His huff and puff can’t even open a door now. What’s amazing is that he still has a couple of teeth left. These give him a horrible toothache which the little pigs love to tease him about. Can’t eat pig with a toothache.
So there he sits, dreaming of better days, those days of chasing pigs and running from the woodsman. Just outside the door, there’s a patch of wolfbane. It would make a great salad but it’s hard to chew, he has an allergy, and it’s also hallucinogenic. Last time he ate some, he met a girl named Hood in the forest. The visions of her haunt him to this very day. So there he sits, flipping the pages and rocking gently to the strains of Sweet Caroline mixed with the dissonant oinking of carefree pigs.
murder is a sin…
laughter bears a resemblance
to salvation
The Arrangement
the composer
pens his Prelude in D . . .
solar winds
Somewhere, deep in the shadows of his mind, Angelo sits with himself. In his weathered hands he holds a harp strung with strands of his hair. He peers into the void. The void echoes back its nothingness. The man turns his attention to the embers casting a pale glow at his feet and kicks them back to life. Sparks float into the deep emptiness. Content with the now-starry sky, he begins to massage the harp strings as if about to pluck a note. But, then, with a deep sigh, he rests the harp at his side.
A wandering muse steps from the shadows, a lost look on his face. Angelo isn’t sure what to make of him, but offers the muse a place by the fire and a bowl of vegetable stew. The muse stammers profusely about how he hasn’t eaten in days, but mostly that he hasn’t encountered a creative soul in months; his life force is nearly spent. “I am nourished by creation, you see.”
“I am nourished by inspiration,” Angelo replies. “Perhaps, you can help me out.”
“I have never tasted such flavorful soup,” the muse replies. “My mother had no imagination—she named me Joe—always the same bland broth. You seem quite creative. Perhaps, you can help me.“
They study each other’s faces silently in the glow of the fire. Angelo reaches for his harp; Joe begins to chant: one, two, three; one, two, three . . . the shadows begin to dance.
wings and pollen
in harmony with the winds
dancers and drifters
Deconstruction
Morning after the journey from Heaven down to Hell.
We flew all night past the warning signs unaware of the dice-roll just ahead.
Contents of our baggage strewn shredded on the hotel floor.
Cabbage, torn apart; our backs to the great divide.
You’re off to hide in Maryland; I jump the tram to Disneyland.
Study myself in the looking glass, but another joker’s face is there.
Comb his hair, brush his teeth,
Sit in his chair at the restaurant.
Eat his pancakes, swipe his keys, pretty as you please.
Step on the gas, not a backward glance. Roam his wild-ass dreams.
Nothing beats the clarity of madness.
Ghosts in the belfry smash my bell spawning little devil bells.
I stroll between the tombstones arranging dead flower stems.
My wandering bones dissolve, detach themselves from my soul.
The cashier in her cashmere sweater points her nose at the door.
I realize I’ve lost my mind; there’s nowhere up from here,
Cops say I’m fucked up, but baby, I’m just fucked.
Walgreens parking lot, 1 am; got to walk straight for the officer.
Shake out webs spidy spun in my head
2-step, 6-step, Lego leg, blender footwork all the same to them.
Vertigo, alcohol; who’s to tell?
Cuff link, bend head, take a free ride on the public dime.
Station break, breath test, inky fingers, blood test.
Babe, they say I’m all fucked up, but really I’m really just pissed.
*
Morning in the psych ward. Who the fuck are you?
The blackness of last night paints the canvas of my mind.
“Doc will see you soon. Here, just take this pill.”
Why am I still here? There’s nothing wrong with me?
“Take this pill and settle down, the doc will be here soon.”
Fuck your pills your obfuscation.
You’re out of tune, cacophony.
You may be in the conversation, but you’re not really real.
Just pinch yourself, I’ll prove it; pop your pretty balloon, set your helium free.
You’re the one who’s ill. I’m the one who’s me.
“We detect rebellion, a hint of insurrection.”
911—where’s the fire alarm? Got to escape this tinderbox.
Devil’s about to burn it down.
“An injection will help to cool you down.”
Hold me down. Poke around. Haldol can’t stop me.
You’re just hallucinations—ghouls I shouldn’t talk to.
No joke, no lie, I’m on fire. Get me a water hose.
Got to keep my wits if I’m to run for President.
If only all these residents would vote me into Heaven!
I’d send a text to the Devil, God rest his weary soul.
Invite him up for a cup of wine.
Along with all the famous sinners,
we’d turn the place upside down,
create a free museum,
unveil all the mysteries,
let people see ‘em.
The Crucible
Fogbank, weathervane, brain loop, truth-pain,
nightmares, night sweats, dementia test, house arrest,
smoke-smoke, crappy food, got the trots, ink blots.
Roped to a time bomb, locked in a rhyme, Mom,
head filled with tom-toms, where has the roof gone?
“Let’s put your shoes on.” Where is my hat, Mom?
Let me out! Get me out! Set me free! Let me be!
I spilled my guts; my, must be nuts–pistachios or pecans?
Pump me full of chemicals; I dare you to eat one.
Red wire, green wire, close my eyes, pick a wire and pray,
Some things just won’t wait until they detonate.
Black as night, the light of day,
Spin my wheels, feet of clay.
Truth, justice, lies, laments,
pain, joy, stress, intents,
peace, release, wants, wishes,
schemes, desires, adventures, dreams.
Freedom to express; that’s what I need.
A tiny seed in a flowerpot. Power to speak without regret.
A little reprieve from the demons I’ve met.
Bound hands, shackled mind,
empty heart, blind eyes.
Vocal cords in shambles.
Been rambling on for days . . . weeks . . . months,
each and every moment, another pound of pain.
Comes the Angel of Art bearing parchment and quill.
Beseeches me to write whatever I want or will.
“Free your hands, let loose your mind, fill your heart, look inside.
Here, just take this smile; dream a little while.”
“Sit on the edge of the bed.
Rearrange your head.
Pick up the pen, forge ahead.
Begin to unveil some truth.
Tick a little, toc a little,
sit a little, walk a little.
Write between the highway signs.
Hocus Pocus, gotta get some focus.
My, the sky is blue.
These walls are green, but that’s okay.
They melt away whenever I look through ’em.
“Write, write, write; you’ll be alright.”
Up all night picking fights with the Devil.
He doesn’t like my last review–my latest revelations.
Complains about my wretched affliction,
my piss-poor diction, obsessed conviction.
Bribes me with a savory vice or two.
It’s nothing new; this well-versed sinner
has a trick or two of his own.
Write, write, write; I’m up all night ignoring the Devil.
Battles rage on haunted shores.
Up and down, ‘round and ‘round,
asylum sounds for company.
What, another angel reaching through the flames?
Another Lady Liberty drawing dream’s horizon?
Detaching shadows from my soul.
She offers me her sacred tablet–
hands to me her fearsome sword.
Write, write, write; its song takes flight
cutting through the mayhem.
Beyond the trials and tribulations.
Each contemplation digging deeper.
Pain dissolves in tears.
Flower petals float on bleary eyes.
Yes, the rose has thorns, but also smells divine.
I can’t forget the grape as I kneel to pour the wine.
Spent last night running from darkness into darkness.
Morning found me face down in the dirt.
As good a place as any to stand and face the truth.
It is not what you think of me that really makes me hurt.
It’s how I see myself and that’s just in my head.
This is where I make my stand; this is what I am,
And this is what I’m not.
I am not your anger; I am not your pain.
I am not your misery; I am not your shame.
I am not worthless, gifted with a purpose.
I can’t be abandoned for I have found myself.
The chains that once bound me have melted in these flames.
Free inside my mind I’ll find another way . . . another way . . . another way . . .
A better way . . . a better way . . . a better way.
Maze
First published in Under the Basho, 2019
Mirror
The beauty of art is that it offers the observer a pathway through their own imagination.
cherry tree
how many seasons
will I see you bloom
Vanity
I splash my face
and fumble for a towel…
sleepy shadow
Staring into the mirror, I revisit my present self. Whiskers have returned. Wrinkles all seem in place. Hair still disappearing, a pondering man looks back at me. I grin shyly, recognizing him as the reflection I met in yesterday’s mirror. A calm overcomes me as I leave the old man to reflect, hoping he’ll be there tomorrow.
Why This?
If I tell you the truth, you may find it messy. But art isn’t about being pretty. Its raison d’etre isn’t to be beautiful; rather, it is for providing the child inside with a haven from this often brutal and dark world. The stories are graphic. At the same time, they move us like dandelion seeds on the wind or rivers dissolving mountains. We find pain and joy there. They are so very different but, from the perspective of this artist, they are one and the same. Art is a celebration at a funeral.
the brush swirls . . .
each woman, man, and child,
a portrait
To hell with the dissertations, they are all cramped and withered. Art speaks! One need only listen. I’ve had this conversation before. Every participant has a different definition for it. My purpose is not to define but refine, to sculpt it into a bust for you to examine from your own vantage.
We all bring our own experiences to the show. This is how we interact with the art, preconceptions filling our minds, gently or abruptly disrupted by the artist. What does it mean? You tell me. It’s a product of yours and my imaginations. How can I know what you will take away?
sunset . . .
you see the orange sky
I see a blue heron
It would be a dreary world without art. Thankfully, humankind has been expressing its experience to the fullest since prehistoric times. We see the forces around us, the good and the evil, ask great questions, and find the beauty in simple things. We wage war and we wage war against the war. The atrocities will be remembered, the faces of the weary displayed. The colors on the wall will soothe us.
If there was only light, we would miss the darkness. Beauty is the words on the page, paint on the canvas, a face in the stone no matter the subject. Art is a moment captured. As that moment fleets away, the tale is retold for all to hear. Each moment recorded is a gift, a gift from a friend. Your friend, the artist, seeks to ease the pain, to bring light to the darkness, and share with you what it means to live.
a shock of wheat . . .
we become the story
we’re passing down
