Gallery

[Boxxed] series

This gallery contains 9 photos.

This series of drawings is executed while my hand, the materials, and the paper are inside a cardboard box. I draw or paint for an indeterminate amount of time, relative to my interest alone in the current execution, while reading a book, or listening to music, or watching a film. It is not to be […]

Poem #72

They don’t make miracles in America.
The factory is shut,
The work force brutalized by dark-eyed ogre cops.
It smells forever like autumn in the
Basement where the boxes of our best days sit unremembered.

The chair reclined too far,
We fell on the ground, broke our nerve.
Hens jab the dirt for crack corn,
Find pebbles, embrace solace in disappointment.
But hey, full bellies and weight.

When I was five I broke the tv turning the channels too fast,
The picture never came back.
Only a far off green dot
entertained my naïveté about finding something solid to catch on
in the vast electronic dark.

Poem #68

No sketchbook
No exacto
Sharply oil based marker thin an thick.
Cutting down, cutting thin the sentences.
Hurting, we do a lot of hurting, we hurt forever and ever and ever, and one or two times we feel good.
Hubby undid, hubby unsung, hubby unhinged and stingy with the lemonade smiles.
Jiffy quick stop sells sic packs, we need several to clear the heir.
I was wanted but now that I have been unwanted I know what it is to want to be unwantable.
Sometimes life just goes wrong,
For a long time and I think of
Mothers who give their lives for no good kids every day, I would say be worth it, but preachers don’t know shit about the flavors of heaven.

poem 50

werewolf apprehension experts seek me
I have shifted too many times.
I have been too many things
Too many lapses in the human skin
I am see through.

This poem wanted to be a tiger
But it’s a lost dog poster
Stapled too many times
To a wooden power pole.
I digress,undress under duress
And just made a mess of the second
Stanza.

Where was I. Oh yes, apprehension
Seeks me out under tables too big
To see the ceiling above.
Scraps have been dropped into bowls,
I lap at the gravy mad elf.
I have shifted too many times,
I become c-thru rulers in a
Dank basement art classroom.

I digress–wait we did this already….

I lose my shit, transform from autobot to decepticon.
Under moon phase nacho cheese stylus evenings
I trace where the last one of me was last seen,
Was it obvious j was losing my mind?
Or did you reckon so from the throes of whoa
I made as I broke upon light pole holy sonnet roles.
I made a mess of me and this poem and those sad
werewolves who never should have been
exploited this way.