Same time.

Earth's face in shadow,
fingers spread apart.
One eye in daylight,
on the other side.

9/23/2025

 

Thanksgiving

* turkey

* indoor plumbing

* ELECTRICITY

* garbage disposal

December 31, 2024

THE HOLIDAYS.

H-Mart,
Walmart,
Cuisinart, and
Modern Art.

Small fry,
house fly.
Stir-fry, and 
Crucify. 

Hi-fi
Wi-fi
Sci-fi, and
pumpkin pie.

Cat shit,
bat shit,
Nit wit, the
hell with it.

CHICKEN of the SEA.

 

A wingless chicken floats

above the depths of

briny wash.

Without, the placeless atmosphere breathes hotly

on white goosebumps which point upward, out, 

and back around.

Swirving in a chicken sea of salty-watered yellow soup,

a tailspin bowls him clockwise, (sucking oil beads loose, 

in rows, that wave most nervously behind).
Bombarding him with seaweed [sailing salad, 

navigating on a meatless soup].

Chicken/see the point in sky

thru' narrow tunnel at your ear.

Nor spoons, nor metal stirring rods

scratch 'round such thund'rous doomsdays as 

unquestionably end-all as you think you hear.

A sparkle on the WIDE LIGHT BLUE,

MOST DIMLY SEEN FROM SOGGY PERCH:

Unfeathered,  hopeless, crying bird,

in a wine-dark maze, without his head,

In vain attempts to squawk aloud. 

In vain, the muffled snorts re-echo 

to the airy lid.

As Giant Woman peers from lifted tin:

The little chicken paddles

through the yellow wash, in circles,
near the cold-gray walls of metal

of the soup pan he is in.

 

 

Cat with maintained foothold on existential collapse, 2020.

Might there be . . .

O might there be a scrap for me?

A piece of cheese, a drop of ghee? 

A school of catfish in a lake?

a cherry pie,

a chocolate cake?

An ear of corn, a stalk of wheat?

A pound of ham? A rack of meat?

O can't you see my furtive glance?

My stifled lurch?

My open hand?

My faith in god in disarray?

My empty dish and watchful eye?

"Dear Sir,

I beg to be set free

--that I were you

and you were me."

sincerely, your cat

     Memories of the future.

   Two people experiencing the same pain in different ways.                                    

       Colored drawing. Ball point pen, graphite and colored pencil on paper, summer 2020 (8x6")

Sunlight

The sun is naive, every morning.
Raking over the coals of night.

Looking for a surface that will liven unity, as far as we know.

Scattering its volcanic delicacy onto every sound.
Pain rehearses its toilette du jour.

Partial ecstacy.            ball point pen, watercolor, pencil and colored pencil, 6/3/2020

   Submerged hairpin with inability to swim. 

     (watercolor & colored pencil, 2020)



 

Charnal slumber in the Summer of unmitigated stench, one electric outlet, and an undeviated septum.    

 

This was the 4th of July.
Spent on floorboards, ancestral murder, blood of once living rodents, waxed flat. 
Red blob swirls, sunk onto cold exit pipe: a small ghost. 
Is it mine?

Precisely one achievement, spawned from duelling soliloquies, fighting a fight that could not be won.

Burning flies by candle light. 
And out they go.
That summer, like all others.
The monumental inability, the
impermissible contentment.
The silenced fireflies and bats.

The blood flushing out of stabbed ribs; the 4th of July. The day that was the same as all other days.

          (linoleum cut, monotype, on paper, 2019)

 

 

Olive oil

 

The silence (so loud). The person, tenuous.
The locked gates.

 

The impossible amusement.
The lack of water. The insatiable thirst.
The cats that are the same, day after day.
The butter being bad for you.
The olive oil and salt.

  

 

 

 

MAEBEL.

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If only I could be like Maebel

The dog was well-educated, 

well-schooled in the weight of existence, the strength of will. 

An absolute master.

The dog was well-bred, as if raised by ancients. 

The dog was self-sufficient and not needy.

Not hesitant, and not uncertain.  Strong, concise, hefty.

The dog was not self-conscious in the least, but broke consciousness with others.

The dog did not feel obligated to smile, or beg for approval.

The dog possessed a stronghold on contentment, held with iron-clad toes

No doubts about their own importance. 

The dog was built of love that could not be destroyed.

I was trying to be less afraid of their heavy leather tail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rump of Notoriety departs, with its false cloak of pigment

Stag : series I (White Hart).

 
ODE TO A SONNET

As sad as thou hast whispered to my time,
and focused thy sweet care abreast of mine;
As thou hast let my wandering shadow slip and climb
along the very street thou in thy soul design.

So sad the figure wandering on the hill,

that it has wandered out of shape, and wanders still...


The variance of thy love, no substance makes,
For there be little of the seed in dark and dew.

The more thy pliance gives, the more it takes,
until the black o'erspreads the field from which it grew.


Alas the hillside, shivering and bare
That with her fading love, did leave me there.

Stag : series I (wall hanging).

Stag : I

Pillow talk.

Escorting Beauty to the Underworld.

ESCORTING BEAUTY TO THE UNDERWORLD

Beauty fell on Midnight dreary

Leg of lamb had stood her up,

Walked with her into the darkness
(held her hair when she threw up).

Guiding her, as one deservéd, foot by foot, on tiptoes curled.

Leaning, sliding, moving forward, onward...

to the execution.
None as loving, none,
as trusted,
escort to the Underworld.

 

Generation.

 

                                                                                                        


Somewhere, a female
insect knows.

Euphoric defecation on a seam of garment.
Ash to ashes,
dust to dust.

Leave your children there, as she does.
Born a louse, to bleed her fetus.
Death is anger, hunger, slaughter,
writhing, swirling, laying eggs.

Scratching at the great hereafter,
Death inherits birth and laughter.

Fiddling with a small disaster,
laughing at her hairy legs.

Poem.

I DO NOT HAVE

I do not have a tub with legs
to soothe your brittle bones.
I have a house in Camelot
with bricks of lucky stones.
A stallion grazes near its walls
with mane as white as silk.
He feeds on sordid tumbleweed,
and churns it into milk.
He drinks from out a silver trough
which daily doth he fill
all with this creamy liquid
underneath our window sill.
I fain would ladle you a glass
but dare a drop I take,
the slow, kind horse grows nervous
and my lucky house may break.

1970s

Etchings, lithographs, monotypes, relief prints, oil, watercolor, drawings, typescript, animated film stills

- - - - -

Chicken little

Chicken little wept alone
To mourn his troubling fate.

He fed his worm a catfish,
and put a nickel on his plate.

Waitress washed their counter
and unsewed them with her eye.

Coin slid down her bosom,
while her heels, as if to stop it,
stitched a shuffled, terse reminder of her presence,
'cause she didn't want to wait to see him cry.

Arm upon the shoulder
of the precious worm, his friend.
Consoles his wiggly cousin
That they will not squirm in dust beneath park swings in summer's heat.
Nor fear be trod on at a moment's glance
by deaf, confounded, dumb, enormous drums of human feet.

And in good fellowship they sat,
and sat a fortnight there and more
Perched on wound up stools
at their table.

'til they intruded from their public sockets,
out the door.

= = = = =

father