Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Is there a Post-game show?

At the end, after my four quarters 
have been played,
are there commentators
analyzing
my big runs, foibles & fumbles?
Are ex-players turned orators
spouting my reasons, explaining
my whys
like a Sunday post-game 
show?


(2011 football season)

Like a dice game in the backend of an alley

Blood numbers - CE (B.F.M series 2011)
Giclee prints available; 16"x20"
Do 
the gods decide
or are they too 
at the mercy 
of a universe
mathematically 
cycling forward
spitting out 
one species
after 
another ?


(2011)

9 a.m.

You’d think 
the walking dead
would rise early.
Not here
his shift
starts after
9 a.m.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Soylent green perhaps

In this country we can all be millionaires. We just -
just need a million dollar idea, capital and the stars aligned in our favor.
You can take any good thing and corrupt it into a bad thing. Take pre-made chia or hummingbird food – first ingredient water then sugar.
I can take any love and ruin it.
A respectable life and crash it.
If only I could take the idea of homelessness and make it into a million dollar idea – soylent green perhaps.
All the opportunities are in place – we only need a treasure map,  Red Chucks and a MBA – unless you have the million dollar idea. Then you need a ship, a crew, a parrot, an eye patch and fire power.
All the opportunities are overseas.
But we can become millionaires.
One day I’ll learn one foot in front of the next. It wasn’t a million dollar idea, however it gets me around.

(2010)

She

She tweets under – Lovedog.
She cuts hair.
She always looks like a million dollars.


(2010)

Dirty Napkins

Napkins pile up like Pavarotti 
singing Christmas carols.
The tea stains page after page
the way a desperate writer 
wishes to write line-after-line.


(2010)

Hey Thanks

Rolls and rolls of cash are laid against dying grass
by immigrants, getting five cents on the dollar,
so we can golf 
or 
enjoy this pastoral scene
while drinking limes swimming in Coronas 
and eating guacamole made by the maid.


(2011)

(2011)

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Fearless Act

A male Gambel quail
walked a tight rope
without arms or net.
He stopped half-way
looked at me and said:
“if she can do it, so can I.”


(2011)

Desert Bell


Sabino Canyon winter 2011
Rain hitting rocks
awakens Sabino Canyon
to possess the torrential 
drops between her legs.

(2011)

Friday, December 23, 2011

Peep

(2008 BMM Collection - Giclee print)
My youngest cat, 
a collage,
plucked off 
the sale racks 
at a quilting store.

Loose threads swim 
in oceans of white 
surrounded 
by orange coasts,
and inland
she is various 
grays and blacks.

An idiot 
with no imagination would
have called her Patches.

You know all the rules

Parcheesi 
was your favorite game; 
you’d read the rules
inside the back box top 
like it was a Keat’s poem – 
that’s why you never won.


(2008)

An Art Opening

When you leave our conversation about this painting,
with it’s red marks, 
a shape like a head, 
a shape like a boat, 
a shape like a bird, 
a tree colored blue,
and after you’ve had dinner with friends at table for three,
and you’ve gone home without having had the crème brûlée, 
will you pet your cat, 
brush your teeth,
floss, open the mail,
or first find the vibrator,
because it’s easier than going home with a conversationalist?

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

When I grow up


When I grow up, I
I want to be a canyon
whose rock edges are
ravished smooth by
water’s falling madness.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Mary Christmas
Giclee Print
From my Ollie M Collection

The Love of Space

I’ve thought about what you said,
About the economy of space within the walls of poetry.
About not using the same word
Over and over and over. Then I decided 
The rules are all about fear, about control. About dread.
About the de-evaluation of poetries dollar
On the page. About the plummeting value of words used loosely.
Then as if none of that matters, I turn 
And think about space. I love space.
I love to turn in space, 
especially the space between sheets.

Mad Love

The lady in the white sleeveless 
satin blouse coughs up 
a toothless fairy that proceeds 
to grant her three wishes.
Her first wish was to love like a tornado; second 
bend like a willow; third flow like the Milky Way.
So the fairy 
turned her 
into a fairy.


(a lighter one for L.G.M.)

Brighter Ideas

I thought of you today. I thought of us. 
Differences, similarities. Fear. Thinking.
I thought of gratefulness. Then asked
myself – what do I want? – more than once. 
I thought about being and being coupled 
like a cufflink in a brighter blue shirt.
I thought about driftwood drifting 
like canoes down a polluted stream.
Then I thought about the sun, it’s rays, flaring up, 
burning it’s self to death, like our bed.
Merry Christmas

Angsty Foreign Film

Damn my emotions are loud 
swinging a wide wake, like
a barge down the Cumberland 
carrying every one else's shit 
the way I carry on like an angsty
foreign film.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

God V2

God v2
Giclee print
16" x 20"
2011

Ancient aunt


Blue eyes I've never meet, but knew,
an ancient aunt perhaps – kinder than
my mother – said: "you look like an actor." 
Mother, hellbent on filling my
life with her story, said: 
"my hair was wasted on a man."
My distant auntie goes on:
"You've got the stare of an empty parking lot filled with 
upturned push pins, just like a matinee idol in New Brunswick."
I tell her: "I've never been to New Brunswick.
So we plan a trip by train, to feel
the clanking metal wheels on metal tracks
getting hundreds of miles to the gallon. 
I bring my family photos for entrainment. We’re
lost for hours, until we come across a young 
photo of my mother, she looks just like my traveling 
companion on a good day. 
I close the book, gently put into her lap.
I walk hurriedly to a door and jump from the train.

Blue wheelbarrow

A blue wheelbarrow
Dies on its side, waiting
for anyone, it’s not picky.
I lie on my side emptied, blue 
waiting like a dead clown found 
in full gown blacked out
in my trailer. Blacked out
waiting for anyone.

11-18


18th.
day one, of two
two day tomorrow.
sorrow sounds off
a handball court.
ping, thunk. day three
the cats won’t eat red meat
laid out like a cadavered cow.
day, then a day, then a day, day four.
the 18th, i’ll wake, maybe, too
breakfast sausage, eggs, buttered toast
rosemary peach jam. getting me out
of the jam i’m in: strawberry. 
blonde vanilla ice cream
passes for day five.
then, the answer on
day six to eternity:
the 18th.