The Artisan's Cup

The latest inspiration from my sister and brother-in-law's Mirai adventure. Check out The Artisans Cup  taking place at the Portland Art Museum on September 25-27 and support these explosively creative folks.

Mirai

Check out my sister and brother-in-law's new website for their Bonsai Mirai. Pretty Magical

In Memory of My Feelings- Frank O'Hara

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.

My quietness has a number of naked selves,
so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves
from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons
and have murder in their heart!
though in winter
they are warm as roses, in the desert
taste of chilled anisette.
At times, withdrawn,
I rise into the cool skies
and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification
of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape,
speaks, but I do not hear him,
I’m too blue.
An elephant takes up his trumpet,
money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror
across shoulder blades. A gun is “fired.”
One of me rushes
to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me
flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes,
and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips
are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt’s lust,
definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs
of earth.
So many of my transparencies could not resist the race!
Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets,
a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth,
the imperceptible moan of covered breathing,
love of the serpent!
I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants
and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud
and animal death whips out its flashlight,
whistling
and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent’s eyes
redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth!
My transparent selves
flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing
without panic, with a certain justice of response
and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.

ART

Some of my paintings....

I Envy No One: A Sestina

Chocolate explosions mark the Gluttonous

Tummy chub. There are days dedicated to the Sloth,

Where rejuvenation is paramount. As for Wrath,

Laser points brow center at men who cross my Pride.

Boots, bags and cardies fluster the Greedy

Monster. Subtle as steam, my steeping Lust.

The lewd minx effuses Lust.

What ravenous serpent couldn’t resist sed Gluttonous

Indulgence. My she was Greedy,

Feigning the frigid Sloth.

This caught your eye, hooked your Pride

Unleashed my Wrath.

The smoldering, bubbling, molten Wrath,

Erogenous, as Freud’s ID. Lust,

For your mother, your brother, your friend’s Pride.

Never dishonored, always placated. As a flag, Gluttonous

In its ability to morph from Sloth

To silk. Oh, Greedy

Commodity. Society defined by Greedy

Commodity. Corkskrew and Wrath

Acknowledges emptiness in things. A Sloth

Needs but munch and snooze. Our Lust

For glitz oozes bloody glitter. We’ve become so Gluttonous

As to thirst for that scorching sap. Blind as our Pride,

Would permit. That unremitting Pride

Undergirds all conscious thought. Slop, knee-deep and Greedy,

Hungry, thirsty, horny, Gluttonous,

Insatiable desire. Energy can never be destroyed by Wrath

Nor converted by Lust.

Only repressed, sublimated by Sloth.

You are the Sloth.

Your Pride

Will be your demise. Never let Lust

Conquer love. Lest you feed that Greedy

Monster. And ignite it’s Wrath.

You are at heart, Gluttonous.

As am I. I Lust to Sloth

In Gluttonous Stupor. My Pride

And Greedy Wrath will Envy no one.

Festival garb

If I were lucky enough to attend coachella, This is what I'd wear.

Take Me to the Desert

Venus of Urbino

-->

This lil’ piggy hears the corporate chime,

Dyes violet blonde and whines.

Feeling buffalo blah? This liquid gold

Turns wonder inside out. It’s the secret

Of glam-vicious—sparked by ignoble dukes

Who reign supernovae, where stars come

To die. So, rock, paper, screw you!

I am Woman, of swollen root and form.

Oh my Guinness, cuckoos an un-

Conventional daphne.  It’s the blind,

Leading the blind, an atom bomb

In my ovaries. Where stars come

To die. In alabaster tombs, votives cry

Where is Venus in the ‘I’

Hashtag empires buzz,

Vendi, Vidi, Vici—

 

One Day They'll Bury Me

One day they’ll bury me.

Fires rage, every possession, every material memory, buried in flames.

Every worry, every joy, every attachment, every thought- will be bruised in a thaw of memory, buried in fresh grass.

So why do we spend our time grinding over the menial things? I want to be liberated from the petty.
 Break free from the immature drama- the fucking satire of this old shiva.

I bow to the divinity within me, the soul who lights the match and writes her name in sparkler tails

     engulfed by night to feed the stars.

Stranded in an Escher Sketch

 

To exit, there is no sum

As Beethoven’s ossicles—

A caged pendulum

It’s not the notes— it’s the space—

Where barnacles thrive, thrashing—

All the more in lack of a tide

It’s not the tune— it’s the harmony—

Concert static where trebles headcase—

One desolate pine to sync with the base

It’s not the angle— it’s the symmetry—

Where single steps wax, another ellipse—

Piled high, as nibbled nail strips

White noise swallows symphonies

Eroding convex and concave, impregnate—

Lofty sound waves

Black Affirmation

This belly-synergy

Subverts the board game.

Somewhere impossible,

Checkers melt red with black,

Affirming the star crossed hues.

I will never get that

From you, darting

Across checks.

Skip three reds

To encounter my blackness.