As far back as I can recall, I’ve wanted to be an artist when I grew up. It often shifted between wanting to be a novelist, an animator, a comic book artist/writer, and an obscure poet, but I knew I wanted to be a professional creative.
I’m almost halfway through my 47th year and I am not, nor have I ever been, a professional creative, although I have been writing poetry and prose and blog posts continuously for over 30 years. Even though it’s painful for me, I want to talk about why I’ve struggled with creating the art I want to create and why I haven’t tried to go pro. (Continued)
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
hey, you guys
in the cunning disguises!
can i join your masquerade?
a space
a place
a mysterious case of who are you?
oh!
oh no!
no lost again
but butterfly & moth
& a little bit of frost
to chill
oh, you guys
in the cunning disguises!
can i drink your lemonade?
a space
a place
a mysterious case of upstaged youth
truth!
no truth!
truth lost again
most moth & butterfly
& a little bit of rye
to drink
look, you guys
with your cunning disguises
you’ve lost
your case
for an endless empire
picking off pieces of skin
as i go
on & on & on & on
smooth as a snake
warping & shifting
lifting my face from the floor
this is me
who i am
who i never was
who i will always be
cracking my voice
changing my shape
eating too much
dancing too little
on & on & on & on
a little bit of sad
a cup of frustration
a bag of hope
an ocean of tears
& the sun is too bright
& the mercury is too high
& the music is too quiet
& i’m much too happy
& i’m far too sad
& i’ll never lose these chains
as i go
on & on & on & on
cracking my bones
bursting my skin
changing my shape
again & again & again & again
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
you walk on the edge of
the frozen abyss
in the back of the dead
i scribble to listen
while soldiers are bleeding glass
your spine, it’s a war, it’s a dance
you smile a note when you walk
& the burlesque of the mystery thickens
when you’re not an angel of the frozen abyss
you’re lost inside the glare of the moon
he’s doing an awkward dance in time
when your talk is enchanted by shadows of mist
i want you, me, & the enemy you created
when we watch your reflection
there’s blood on the floor & you say your scouts are the moon
you cut off even speaking your mind
the skin that stretches & turns to glass
is lost inside the glare of the spoon
in a call on to know how to weaken
your words, you fall, you all
good puzzles start to walk
& you smile when you dance on my hands
singing of how you created a window
the chill face in the twist of the back of love
if you change & punch & leap into shadows
all lost inside the glare of the spoon
in the mirror reflected a million times over
your face on the middle & born into truth
in like you threaten to chop off the edge
of the spark like you press your face in the snow
& the heart of my heart becomes curved like a spoon
i’ve seen all my hands i was thinking i wanted
to dance in a tomb & my eyes are so lost
so lost inside the glare of the moon (Continued)
I park my car at the end of the ragged, gravel road and step out into the thick, warm night. I have come to tell the weather’s green wind how the invisible hand that grasps the deep rotten fruit of the heart will exploit it. The heart is pure when filled with daylight, but at this time of night, I need to shout my words into my veins. Words about how age blasts the roots of the hanging man. but how the meager words of my clay mouth suck at expressing what’s in my head. (Continued)
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
The sun comes up on a humdrum town.
Professor Curl rises early to work on his calculations. He makes a pot of strong coffee and a couple of slices of buttered toast, taking everything into his office. The coffee pot and mug go in the one empty spot on his desk, while the plate of toast is balanced precariously on a stack of books. He grabs a marker, stares at the whiteboards spread around the room, and…he does nothing. He shakes his head, but he can’t focus his thoughts. He pulls a small flask from the pocket of his bathrobe and empties it into his coffee. After downing one cup of what he calls Cuban coffee, he’s able to shake off the ghosts of his childhood and throw himself into his world of numbers and calculations. Familial abuse is a hell of a thing. Drinking rum on the sly is a hell of a thing. Professor Curl knows he has something of a problem, but the drink fuels his work, and his work fuels his life, so he accepts his drinking as a devil he’s made a bargain with out of necessity. (Continued)
