i am staring at the painting
i need to cover over in gesso
to paint over with something
more honest. this lie becomes
too heavy to bear. the colors
too gray and blue and desperate
to explain to passersby
are becoming all we are
and all we can ever become.
i am looking for my brush,
but i don’t need a brush,
only paint, only time, only the desire
to change everything
and forget what needs forgetting

the green fish only eats yellow fish
and blue fish, the blue fish doesn’t eat
red fish or yellow fish. i realize
i have no idea what color fish i am
what i should eat. what it means
to be ignorant. i start to cry
and the ocean laughs

i see the chickadee in the bush
in front of me
snow is falling, falling slow
branches seem all he knows
i am the chickadee in that bush
as i watch the snow
falling falling falling slow

On Wednesdays, I would play with books
tell stories of a young boy
i loved, and of course reveal the drawing
of blood from thin little veins
into glass tubes for careful consideration
later. when the words were gone
I would sit in a dark room
considering the importance of groceries
and use all the best swear words
to explain the path I took
to get to this place where I think
I might be found.

Working on a bit of art that’s definitely my style but a different subject matter. Lately, the image of the ‘gun’ has been in the forefront of my consciousness. My views on guns are a lot more complicated than one might expect, and the symbolism of guns is something that I find endlessly interesting to explore and use to illustrate ideas that have nothing whatsoever to do with guns.

In matching sun dresses
covered in big pink Bayahibe roses
they walked hand in hand.

The little girl, she said, ‘Mami,
why does the cao fly away
when I run up to kiss him?”

Her mother sighed,
“he does not understand
— he is a bird.”

The little girl nodded, “yes, Mami
but I understand.”

There were no tears,
only the flutter of black feathers
into the blue sky.

I eat my burgers raw
as the full moon buggers down street
for a beer — life is simple
the blood can flow
or the flesh can burn

Some people are more perfect than me,
they eat their burgers welldone
damned be the full moon
and the beer — life is perfect
hopeless and full of laughter
smiles and despair

I drive a thousand miles
never considering my burger
never wondering who I am
who anyone else might be

Some people prove their point
they soar like wonder
up the hard gray stony sides
of some unsold product — moonless & quiet
hopeful and full of laughter
smiles and despair

there is no flesh, only bright eyes
and the certainty of a burger
somewhere raw enough to dream
somewhere welldone enough to be satisfied
and still, regardless the moon,
i eat my burgers raw

  the cigarette won’t smoke itself under this almost-moon
so the man in the shadows stands
there holding the orange glow of burning 
that reports the streetlight to the darkness

the smoke reaches from the cigarette
toward the nearest star – the one
the man doesn’t notice as he stands
in the shadows. If there is a question
between them, it remains unasked.

the man continues to smoke
the cigarette until it is done 
the orange glow fades
until only the stars are burning
with questions for the moon.

i am an artist

Hence the beady eyes

The constant hunger

For anything

More than food

The crooked nose

The loose middle name

And of course the inability to see

Things the way you do