The Gut | from 6.21.21 edited 12.15.23 I could write about yesterday I could write about love about eyes overcoming my gut, pushing up on my heart. Or I could write about that year when I started feeling again. They don’t seem to go together I’m sure they do pausing...
I didn’t just write at red lights, I wrote at green lights and on the downtown straightaway. At 50mph, 45, 35 winding my island – county highway 56 – two quiet lanes. Around neighborhood turns and slow through the school zones. In the crosswalk, the...
From my breasts I am fierce. I am wild. I walk the mountain trail topless–just like the men sun tanning their bare chests–my bare feet step solid, pads on my paws built by clay earth bake into my soles. I am tender and private. Solitary in the landscape of...
On the other side of art, The pen slows down to honor the mastery of language. To trust the ink. Call it practice— The mindless calling in of words, letters slowly arriving with grace. In this very slow wing a patient honor to voice who enters faster than a...
Every lover had to know my love of making art – even the grief of an abandoned love of making art – came before them. The children, each a world born of creation, would come to know my beloved art as their mother’s ultimate partner. Before seven years of age,...
It’s true none of this has to do with dreams. I’ve really been there – all of there. I would know the locations on a map – even if, even when – I do go back and no longer can find it’s crystal caves, its sweeping valleys, its secret old towns hidden...
What is it about the moon? I jumped into it. I drink from his light – yes his round eyes like John Lennon’s glasses. The cups of glowing moon milk – Moon, ah you Luna-tic I came from her – yes her dry grey dust who keeps hold of footprints. No...
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