Art The Lover
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, when the ego confronts, children do not question their very central point in their universes. The artist – that time where there is no time – is where she must go.
How can her love affair with her world have dinner at the table on time? She who eats from the banquets of the muses… She who feather touches the very flavor of mystery’s caress…
Suddenly in a wonder my invisible mouth was slapped open with just as invisible a kiss that hollered down my throat, vibrated my gut with the words “Just paint!”. Should I be afraid?
I’m in the car I’m driving I’m breathless I’m stunned with my lips swollen hanging on my open jaw. “Paint with what?” The strawberries in the grocery bag beside me in the passenger seat. The carrot juice. Where? Here? Now? On the asphalt the cement. The seatbelt across my chest under my neck my chin my shirt – holding me in, contained like food in the refrigerator. I crack the carrot juice open. I drink and let it run all down my face my clothes to my lap.
Daily canvas is this body. A double venture overlaid un-between life. I’m understood here by a lover whose fingers caress my blood inside their cells.
Words at the Wheel
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 parking lot. With...
The War of Man vs. Earth
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 my mind....
Writers and Scribes
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...
Fossilized Dreams
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 behind the new...
Luna-tic
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 windstorms, no moon...
