In some attempted creative expression the end product offers the creating party a trade, saying, “You don’t get to get me completely–I’m ungettable by my very nature–but I’ve got something you’ve never done before, and you better keep it.” I think this is one of those.


What Gave

Wizened horseman sought a gig
Wayward daughter worked the trig
Had some talk at 8th & Shea
Hopped a plane unto LA
Added travel slow & rev
And a Stan with last name Lev
Thus the Trickster plays a fife
Tuneful of an orphan’s life

NOTE: The “Stan with last name Lev” is probably Stanislaw Lem in disguise.

we put some stuff in our mouths
and open the food-intake part of our throats
and the stuff goes down the esophageal chute
and in about eleven seconds
it goes to a holding area known as the stomach
which uses an acid bath to leach the good stuff
and sends it on its duodenal way to be absorbed
via fingerlings called villi
and on down through windings of sausage-casings stuff
and the good stuff gets taken some here some there
and the extra or bad stuff gets packaged for offloading

and it all bears a resemblance to taking a stream of thought
and worrying the good engagement out of it
and refining it into words
while extracting the extraneous and the wrong
via backspace delete and cut

each of our glorious bodies are editors
chemical processors
and fertilizer manufacturers

and why that is a source of shame and not pride
is in the labyrinthine history of our convoluted culture

My first Life Drawing class was in the Spring of 1973. My eighth or so was sometime in the early 2000s. Outside the classroom there were a few occasions, and today I found an unfinished drawing circa 2010. I believe the model was Valley-local legend Crystal Cruz. Shoplight lighting and a skeleton made for a good erotic/macabre ensemble.


Bone Fire

Balderdash & one naïf
One in love with fluffy Fifi
Neither wishes to demur
Either’s ether’s too unsure

Fire & Bone

Flimsy limb & leg of lamb
IED goes off & Wham-O
Rip a tide & keep it keen
Enter Now & make the scene

some of us struggle our way out of the womb,
some of us get a free ride worthy of an emperor,
but all of us struggle always.

the struggle to get what we want
enables the struggle to know what we want.

we wrestle with angels, demons, trivial decisions,
and the loomers who want us gone.

one loomer is patient,
often near invisible,
sometimes as darkening as an eclipse.

just as you need to drink before you’re thirsty,
you must struggle before the loomer looms,
or you’ll relax
and be taken.

This celebration of Charcoal in its various forms was done not in charcoal but in pencil. Without proper charcoal paper, charcoal, a real chamois, at least two kinds of eraser, and fixative, it is unwise to attempt a coherent charcoal drawing.

I here galorify Charcoal with three acrostic poems and one drawing of four Charcoal incarnations:

charcoal 112014

Charcoal I

Carbon & gum arabic
Have a vine & dandy go
Add your dark and scarabic/A
Righteous DARK’ll Rock & Roll

Charcoal II

Could be it’s a stick with colic
Half a shadowed calico
Anti-talc or -tapioca
Rich rococo cocoa local

Charcoal III

Crackled screeches: cacophonic
Half a circle makes a halo
And a matador’s veronica
Robbing feedlots of a payroll

a gift from scotland
from my daughter:
the complete poetical works of robert burns
with lavish color plates

quoth the second paragraph of the introduction:
“By Jean Armour he had nine children,
but he fathered bairns
on Elizabeth Paton,
Jenny Chow,
Ann Park,
and Helen Armstrong.
Margaret ‘Highland Mary’ Campbell may have died in childbirth,
while Margaret ‘May’ Cameron took out a paternity suit against him
(though this was dropped after she aborted or miscarried).
In the context of his time, however, such behaviour
(and its consequences)
were by no means uncommon.”

can i get a holy moly?

monuments aplenty were raised bearing the name of robert burns.

tiger woods is paying for his profligacy
to the tune of many lifetime incomes in the middle-class range.
his swing is off and many think he is washed up.

as for william h. cosby, jr.,
i mourn the man i thought he was
who i now think doesn’t exist.


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