artist is a state of mind.
the self-respect to give myself the time of day.
the pleasure of looking/listening to myself in the future
and present.
No, it won’t just be a fleeting thought-

The Space (4.19)
The space is hard to find
because it exists between
the ones we go on purpose
less a destination
than a place I found myself.

Have I been before?
or is it new each time?

What is an old experience
but a new one with expectations
I want to be here
and then the wanting take me out.
Intention can really spoil things, huh?
no wonder then, that play
should be taken playfully.
Rhyming words, riding alongside
an unteachable moment.
That they may outlive an exmplanation
is the property of life,
cherished or not.
Where then
is the space
for anything else?

When Does Play Run Out? (4.12)

I thought
I caught myself
at the end of it.

but it was
my own

I stumbled
into arguments
of meditation
wielding silence 
like a flaming sword.


maybe I’d hoped
that serious
could be dependable
at least.

but serious caved
to laughter
which increased.

Life Hack (4.9)
If the opposite of wasting is spending,
what does that leave for us?
Where does the rest go
somewhere between the exchange
of goods and services
between the handout
and the bootstrap
a palm, outstretched
counting change.

Where does that leave a gift
between charity and guilt
trading wishes for legal tender
an intention, once
now an impression, at best.

Or can anything precious yet live
is there a place for us
in our shining city?
Love languages overwritten
by machinations of gross efficiency
amid the ringing
the buzz
the bandwidth, reached
the hand over fist

Fugitive Spaces (3.25)
An artist is a detective of fugitive spaces
ready to don a wig
produce a magnifing glass to get the scoop
who’s the client? Myself, pushing
a handful of coins into my own fist.
little to go off on - a name,
or otherwise a hunch
delivered always with much emotion.

Once again it’s time
to consult the canine
to put an ear to the ground
to the raised eyebrow of the skeptical public
Their lack of confidence is not my concern
the pipe is lit
He’s taking the case

the pipes are lit
the pipes are calling

The pipes are clogged with what we tossed down
now to be reckoned with
A medusa of hair on the shower tile floor
corrupt with chemicals
Where does it all go, anyway?
Or has it always sat
just under the drain?

How could I have been born guilty?
My loss of innocence an admission of guilt
my bildungsroman, bourne
out not of sacrifice
but from bodies absorbed
I was born a cannibal.

...could I be so occupied
with the expanse of my body?
battles hard fought - 
eras come and gone
on the surface of my own skin
What is the appropriate scale of my wonders?
My sympathy is an expanding universe
bourne from the first explosive moment of love
transcribed in flesh
touching everything

To Be Sick (12.3)
to be sick is to know health
water drawn up from a well
an empty bucket bound to shock
emerging from its tunnel of rock
built on trust, now betrayed
can I return tomorrow, unscathed?
or is the deal I thought I’d struck
broken, ruined, a lifetime’s luck.