Questions

And I why he me all. He is hard one love. Does know him I do? I continue, my heart any more? heart has retreated . I this somehow. am back the safekeeping my true arms.

I got new content

the light is on a dimming

down

and I almost made it, strong

three days is not four 

but still more than two and one

safety in numbers, 

he said

he always says, math

polymath!

amorous

is my love

there are things I never mentioned to you

maybe 

I don't remember, if you were listening

oh it doesn't matter

I think I am beginning

to have an

understanding

of

it's

because

you see me as your mother ?

laughter

I am not! 

But I could be 

anyone's mother

because I am one

I'm so happy you love her

Sketches

5. The night sleeps, pulled every living thing under its cover. 

I am not dead. Unless you consider my devotion a tomb. Mind, once fluid, now a rock in preservation of your memory.

Imagination held down, nowhere to go, without you. 

I realize you hate this sort of expression. I'm searching for more to say. The games prove too harsh an environment for my fragile ego. 

Sketches

4. The faraway noise of children's television, a sensibility hammering hammering hammering away, it's own private voice, not easily quieted, in the stereophonic mind, the mailman drives past in his old jeep, the sun softly teases at the blinds, pulsing again to the throb of a life, tired from mental labor and physical hours, a drift, an immense and dreamless sleep

Sketches

2.

The world is still a beautiful place.

I see the trees softly blanketed in the morning fog.

His limbs warm around my womanly thighs.

The last minutes bundled in snuggle.

Soft breaths and cloudy sleep.

Sketches

1.

Vacant Mind
Dead Air Stare
Space So Spacious
Between Here And There
Not Too Much

I forget

He is tired of the word games, he is tired of it all.
We can watch cartoons and laugh like carefree children.
Or get toasty and chain-smoke, discussing music and life. He might go away and become a monk. There's a monastery in southeast China that accepts white people.
I tell him that they better or I'll kick their asses.
He is pissed about being under appreciated or broke or sex-less.
And suddenly,
I forget how to open up.

Rememory of all

Rememory of all that he taught and now to obscure what long ago should have been spotlighted.
My heart weakens in memory and my breath deepens to prevent collapse.
Amazing how effective the breath.

Steady Waters

You have a new love, my love. You are smiling again. Nothing left to say. Our ship never sailed, it sits in the harbour.

Retreat

The endless commentary on the shortcomings of human nature.
The perpetual breathless desperation of the loveless.
The mad rants and excitatory ravings of common lunatics.
The pretty picture posts of the natural world. Pretty picture posts period.
An entire subversive culture of sexual addiction, pornography, domination, handing over of power...
Erotica.
Mundane writings. Odd writings. Interesting and curious perspectives.
The man I think I love.
And why I must retreat.

...

He is the image of the dark
A tall bare tree growing bark, hard for protection
Against all elements of nature that would rage to destroy him
She clings to his branches
She swings, a tight rope
Wishing on tender buds that flower
Listening to bird calls and seeing the owl's watching eye

..

The wind stirs around my head and his spirit whispers to me words in another language
But I think I recognize this haunting voice

Because you asked me

I'm gonna write you a love poem.
It's gonna trip you out of your mundane reality. There will be no flowers but .... Birds. If I had a singer's voice, a talent with melody, my poem for you would translate more easily. A love song. I can only hope that your ears, heart, and sensitive body tune in...to mine. I'm gonna write you a love poem. Maybe two, who knows-where this new adventure goes. You fill my spirit with excitement, with hope and for what? I don't exactly know. It's more than just your masculine form that puts me on edge. It goes beyond the seduction in your eyes, your voice. It's probably all that AND the words you would whisper, the love you speak, the probing personal concerns and the understanding you show. Can I hold your hand? Can I touch your heart? You're so very hard to read, a complex book, sometimes open, often hiding ... something ....
I'm already jealous of other women. You make me feel that special.
I'm gonna write you a love poem. Because its the One thing you asked of me. And you seemed so upset. And I shiver when you are close. Although you've made your motives for me pretty clear, I want you to know, I have my own. So...I'm gonna write you a love poem. The ideas are formulating right now. I'm gonna write you a love poem and this is not it.

Southern Nights

Balmy Southern nights. Walking around town in my prettiest dress. Smiling and laughing with the people we meet. Holding hands at the bar. Kissing in a booth and drinking margaritas off the topmost shelf. He tells me I'm the prettiest woman around. I smile and squeeze his thigh. Music live. I get up and dance. He can if he wants to.

Works in Exhibition

•spirit impersonators
•mythic images
•zoomorphic entities
•modern mythic figures
•theater of nature
•found form
•concealed powers
•invisible art
•transformation masks
•visual puns
•inherent contradictions
•coexistence of contraries
•identical opposites
•magical objects
•a world elsewhere
•miniature models
•visual dissection and reassembly
•theater of light
•drawings by psychotics
•souvenirs and fakes
•unworldly sounds
•print sources
•metamorphosis
•surrealist art
•sex
•chance encounters

Sarah not Terror

She is a neon blur moving over the concrete.
Her legs push on and on, while her face takes in the wind.
There is no measure of her speed nor distance, as there is no competition in everywhere.
She is all glitter and giggle.
Dimpled with smile.

Quiet

The mind chatters itself into a delerium
He loves chaos
Security blanket me with your love your arms your legs your passion and all that you do, my love
My balance my binding my soft touch my gentleman
He is the calm pocket in which I place my shaking hands
Love knows better
The One is Trust

Post Void

They really dig the void, the abyss they call it, and lament its coldness with dark sarcasm.
They dig it, it seems all their mouths-shovels, to go on and on with their moving over dirt.
We have long left the ground breaking event.
But still... no bottom, no shattering surface below, no prime course except downward.
Some reach across, stretching an arm, a vocal chord to get to the farthest side of the open space.
Some just teeter at the edge, peering in, squinting eyes and biting a lip.
And then that brave one, that fearless and brazen beauty of a beast, the one who shakes it all off and takes a dive.

Light Afire

To the sunnaway, run.
He breathes a vision into souls, he lights a long burning wood match and I suck the sulfuric odor into my tasting mouth.
Flaring nostrils for the faded pungeancy, widening eyes to the toss of flame into the beautiful chilly night campfire.
I gathered and placed the cracky sticks and dry leaves.
He nods a genteel smile and his eyes seem to wink.
We turn to face the warmth, listening to the after dark world of home crickets, restless dogs, sirens, and traffic.
Moments pass. A log crackles and dips its black-orange ember glow into the fire and ash.

Metal Lizard

on the days of her unbecoming she snatches the metal lizard from the wall and sings to him an opera-esque ballad of woe and deflation.
her voice lands haunting melodious melancholia about the jagged edges of a brief and dissatisfied existence, to which a perpetually bent brass gecko should surely relate on the deepest most intimate surface level of a playing field.
his snaggy not suction claws being the most loud indicator of crafted futility, his dull ungleaming demeanor-a mirror opposite a soul of hammered and hammered and cut up cut up brass.

they fall silent.

they fall. silent.

they fall.