Albeit not an easy task … the universe has succeeded in temporarily overwhelming me. 
So, my retort is to face the corner, pencil in hand, + learn to draw.


 These images were taped together + stuck in an old sketchbook. i love the idea of triptych. Thinking what this one was about, or rather, what i was trying to say other than putting things together + seeing how they relate. i do remember this was the day that i was costumed as a gypsy + kb tied me to a Metropolitan column. Screaming during the photo shoot until a crowd had gathered. We did, however,  disappear before the police showed up.

It had something to do with that wall installations for an italian nightclub. We made illustrations painting white dancing macabre figures on black plastic trash bags. Behind on deadline, + very impatient, we doubled the number of images in half the time by wet coping them on more trash bags, Rorschach test style. Ugh, that reminds me of painting backdrops in an abandon house, winching as we heard the rats chasing across the sagging sketchy roof.
You know, creepy.

Of course there were, + are, also the true quiet profound moments. Those just don’t seem as loud, or come forward as often.


Hello up there stop
Supply + demand has flubbed gone awry as there is not any chocolate in the house to be found stop General time is standing still + specific time goes out of the window w/out being sent stop On my desk sits a dark oxblood leather attaché wallet stop It is soiled in the bottom edges w/ splattered bird droppings + the lock smashed + half missing stop So it seems i have in my possession the curious case stop But the brown shoes have now gone missing stop The moonlight over through you stop Alert all who may not care
L. Dangling


End of an Arrow

The sky is alight + forms distress signals i am unfamiliar w/. The stars are not wholly still, but alive w/ vibration as though the earth’s mounting energy obscures the clear deep space. Branches camouflage as com/radicals dart away into the greenery, trailing fire w/ the ironic confidence of Hansel + Gretel.

i am drawn to this warming flame, it leads me. When the way out is baffling, the way in is too clear. W/out border crossing, w/out fence caging. No walls to graffiti messages for others to misinterpret. Free to play w/ dancing flame, + the appropriate longing to inter/fear w/ emoting. Eyes of fire are blind. All’s fair. There is no need to qualify the hankering for this inner war of passion, nor the outer suffering. In this confusion nothing is forgotten, only left behind.

i’m hit. Assumption fills the being i am. Dropping my chin i see an arrow protruding from my breast. Blood leaks down, rushing toward the earth in an anxious soaking to become one w/ the subtle energy that we all belong to in the end.

Falling to my knees i look up, + sway to an ancient internal rhythm. Vultures form as ink spots above me, then twist + depart as if they were a mere thought flushed from the sky. Everywhere an echo of the outskirts of civilization.

i now long to take a partner by the hand, to follow the parade i’m slipstreaming into. But my mind turns + sees only one. Anteros is wiping tears as he laughs at my shocked numbness. Not asking, nor waiting, as reply he turns + haphazardly lets another arrow fly. It is shot into the sky power/full straight. As its zenith levels, overcome by the earth’s pull of gravity, the weighty point leads a graceful arc down from heaven. Somewhere another is hit in the back. This victim wonders why, even as the answer is known.

The moon fades to blackness + i am alone w/out senses. i hear no longer the breeze through the lacy sifting green. i see no longer the details of this plane. Three mutinous moons shine simply. Three romantic grizzled crones each mocking me w/ a wagging finger. i feel no longer the heat of a burning heart. Only a low resonating hum that becomes deeper, stronger + overwhelms me. A nonexistent kingdom is so very close. The stark whole/iness is the roof of my mouth as it expands, extending beyond.

Not seeing the possibilities can sometimes be a half hallelujah.



Compassion w/out emotion is the privilege of very few vocations in life.


They peered into the cryptic question + gazed on the round table of post cards trapped between glass + masonite. Someone belched. A wooden chair creaked.

The brave one gave it a meek try, "The answer can only be; Wonder."

 A complexion of 'eureka' + 'I wish I’d said that' scurried around the table till it hit the final player on his left side. He didn’t budge his poker face.

He remained stone for the rest to figure on whether he was seriously thinking, seriously numb, or just seriously miles away. They each gave up the read, breathed again, heads turning back toward private thought.

It was then he spoke out of turn, not knowing whose it was.

"It’s simply the Tenth Daughter. The stepchild that makes us think of something kind-of-like, sorta-to, or quite-near. Kind-of-like talking up sacred geometry. Speak that to a client and they'll eat that BS up real fast. Sorta-to like suffering through the present situation to have an enlightenment of it later.
And kind-of-like listening to a genius stutter."

The table commenced synchronized nodding and from up above it looked as though they were rehearsing for a Busby Berkeley - Esther Williams swimming moment.


  Tenth Daughter of Memory / deathbed revenge
(Next month perhaps Tom will have a happy little muse)

First of all, a deathbed does not seek revenge. Imagined or real.
People come to me as a last resting place. A place where you know where you’ve been, but not to where you are going. As elephants traveling out to the bone yard, or where you’ll find the deathly wounded sheltering in holes + scrubs. This place distracts from dreams + focuses concentration. A place people walk into knowing, having somehow decided, they will never walk back out. Everyone spends his or her life circling in on me. It’s like a parlor game. Reality always seems in the next room. Eventually I win.

There is history here. However, none of it judged.
What is missing is the future telling. Foretelling the future is taking away free will. Whose will is it any way? What would become of us if we controlled the present to foretell what is to be? I deal w/ the absolute/tion of death not the meander towards it, + certainly not the way it is handed out.

Everyone knows there is an end to everything that breathes. Does a cure take away free will? That is not miraculous, that is not prophetic, + that is not revenge for the living. No, I do not take away free will, it is will in process.

Second; I am in good shape, not broken down. Though once in a while I am, for lack of space. It is then I need to be re-built. That’s when I come in a kit of 22 easy to assemble symmetrical parts. For more rental dough I come with a pillow, for an uneven total of 23 parts. It is indeed a hard mean little pillow. You pay for the plastic wrap of new.

Thirdly: I do not recognize indulgences. You will have had to already taken care of that before you get to me. I simply pronounce the unconditional after passing the threshold.


Stretching the rules Right Over Yourself

(+ i mean) tedious random notes from a notebook.
Not very often, i’ll look into an old codex + read where my mind was at the time. Try to figure out my connection to the page. First, there is the deciphering of my phonetic spelling, + the mistakes of my furiously getting something down on paper. What''s left, or revealed may, or not, be the original thought.
So, here i go, again.

Dream of a refusal to listen to silent books.
What word describes a combination of misunderstood + thirsty.
Look for an alternate ambivalent tribe.
Revisit an old painting -She Carried a Blazing Flag + was Looking for a Cause.
Meet someone who wants to become a pamphleteer + is not the type you run across the street to get away from.
Articulate ideology.
Decide whether life is detritus. Or not.
Remember; understanding poetry is kind of like asking someone to untie some else’s knot.

Rest on that.


10 glass houses + 20 stones / 10th daughter of memory muse
(another uncontrolled printing of a choka is 5/7, 5/7, 5/7... ending with another 7 syllables.)

choka #17
O me to be trapped
Forever on the outside
to circle trying
To understand a/way in
But glass is solid
To name a hard nothingness
Without a crack or
Muntin of a meeting place

And so to recoil
Into my own hush-hush prism
Of well defined space
Figuring the alien
Out there circling
The glass bowl of a sharp eye
W/in an/other eye 
Creepy but now contented
Strange but for contents
You’ll know when the light is on

Remember there’s no
Way hiding the obvious
Though safe from weather
Except from the winds of change
— Of normality
And the winds of cunning words  
Does all of this count?
Is this place indeed soundproof?
If i can’t hear them, 
Are they allowed to hear me?

And etcetera
i can see i can see through, 
i can see stones lined
Up like gray broken teeth.
Standing in a row
Announcing just quietly
That someone has gone
Down beneath to stain that spot
If you cant see me
You aren’t here you are there. 

Eyes clear and open
Though imbedded w/ mem/ries
Streaking the one good
Decent enjoyable view
Unless reminded
Why the need to think about
The day after now
And the yesterday prior?

The glass and stone meet + play,
Who will always win the game?



visual antics

individual acts

more into the grand gesture

than the blind hem

these days


choka #9
Contemplative mind
Moment in time is magic
Highlands are between
The yearning + the learning
This will conjure up
An episode of kinda
Full of excuses
W/ emphasis on humane     

Attentive devout
Life is an algorithm
Warrior cloud heads east
History of logic is  
Full of dramatic
Episodes of eureka
That will lend credence
Well this is nothing like that  

Gathering feathers
Needing somewhere to place them
Currently commune
Words are not my first language
Compassion near by
Obvious not yours either
Plateau in the clouds
Ends unexpectedly soon.

If we cant escape our fears,
What then, will they do to us?

(i'm positive this will not print correctly. It will be run-on. Which is okay w/ me. But know a choka is 5/7, 5/7, 5/7... ending with another 7 syllables. Just figure it out.)


Dropping her fetters in the wings, she walks into the straight jacket in the theater of the mind.   

She squints her eyes with childish solipsism making the eidolons mere whips in the dark space. The others had fallen into an echoing silence over the years, long ago. And just now.

Offstage in queue they sport costumes of heavy antique bullion and quilted brocade designed and built many years ago, mimicking a hundred years before that. A set of lovers coo, a pirate is selling buckets from a red corvette, another dangling a silver spoon, a child inside a feline, a drooling hunchback, a chorus in deep eggplant chiffon, each waiting a turn while the henchman fumbles with a noose.

Brushing by the understudy she hears break a leg whispered under a breath. The cliché rings in her ears until the deafening roar of the audience applauding becomes inescapable because of its absence. A queue is up. Closing eyes altogether, she gathers herself and charges out onto center stage expecting to be spell bound.

Settling into first position, centering, she glances up at the vacant right box. The big seat is empty. It is worn with wear, and has always been empty. He is not coming. Again. There is freedom in that seat being empty.

Her eyes travel to the pit where the conductor’s arm is paused midair. Once and again a bond with the stick is made. As it begins to flaunt and conjure, she easily steps into the slipstream following in the wake of a major chord.

The exalted feeling is somewhere amid earthbound limitation. That gift does not come from a butt in the seat. Habit dictates she play her part without hesitation, as there is a cycle to round every week, on this night about this time.

When there isn’t scenery one must chew the curtain. The deep crimson fabric pulled up into a sculptured form hovering and leering at the wraithlike audience. The newly replaced footlights again glare like skinned eyeballs staring down and daring a reaction. Her flow steps up the pace into the air and glides from stage left to right. This is when you can believe you are in the presence of a god. She knows sometimes it does not happen. Sometimes everything is in place and there is only disappointment. A spin turns staccato, as she becomes a marionette leaping and dragged down stage.

Rejected again. They aren’t coming. You think my dancing reeks? How about this move…
With a chaotic thrash of the body her leg shoots out and a foot ends in a severe punt to a footlight.
How does this one grab you?
Chaos takes the dance away from her.
One by one the lights erupt, flicker and die.
 …And this, they are foot-lights, yes?
- crash
She spins and hits with deft precision of practice until the only glow left is coming from her face.

The music ends in a deadly crescendo as her breath heaves and the lyrical stillness left behind brings her back to perennial dark Monday. Audition was again over for another week. She descended the stage steps into the house, making room for Next.


 A few choice endings;

But will I have the strength to joke at that moment?

Only one regret. I hate to leave while there's so much going on. It's like quitting in the middle of a serial. I doubt there was so much curiosity about the world after death in the past, since in those days the world didn't change quite so rapidly or so much. Frankly, despite my horror of the press, I'd love to rise from the grave every ten years or so and go buy a few newspapers. Ghostly pale, sliding silently along the walls, my papers under my arm, I'd return to the cemetery and read about all the disasters in the world before falling back to sleep, safe and secure in my tomb.

-L. Bruñel / My Last sigh

 The light off the one weak lamp in a rusty circle fell across the brickheaps and the broken wood and the dust that had been houses once, where the small and hardly known and never-to-be-forgotten people of the dirty town had lived and loved and died and, always, lost.
-D.Thomas / Portrait of the Artist as Young Dog

-J.Steinbeck / East of Eden

 M.Hurd/Goodnight Moon

 I’ll be satisfied with this, and leave it go. 
A loose knotted ending so the spirits can come sit for a spell, 
and then be on their way. -jahh / unfinished script

Love, Mercy, Fortitude, War, Peace, Poetry, Music, — these may be symbolized as any shall prefer: by figures of either sexing of any age; but a slender girl in her first young bloom, with the martyr's crown upon her head, and in her hand th esword that severed her country's bonds — shall not this, and no other, stand for PATRIOTISM through all the ages until time shall end?  -M.Twain / Joan of Arc

Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago. -Melville / Moby Dick

N. Gaiman/Mr. Punch

Then they went down together, and the King awoke, and the Queen, and the whole court, and looked at each other in great astonishment. And the horses in the court-yard stood up and shook themselves; the hounds jumped up and wagged their tails; the pigeons upon the roof pulled out their heads from under their wings, looked round, and flew into the open country; the flies on the wall crept again; the fire in the kitchen burned up and flickered and cooked the meat; the joint began to turn and frizzle again, and the cook gave the boy such a box on the ear that he screamed, and the maid plucked the fowl ready for the spit. And then the marriage of the King's son with Briar-rose was celebrated with all splendor, and they lived contented to the end of their days.  -Bros.Grimm / Briar rose



He held the winged doll in his arms cradling it as he swayed back and forth imagining the life it represented.

Squinting into the sun he imagined the disadvantage of sword fighting against the light with the opponent silhouetted. He moved toward the surf and knelt down dragging the figure onto the sand. The silk brocade fabric wicked up the salt water splaying it in a meander following the jacquard pattern. The darkening of the form interested him and he studied it with intent, not hearing the small girl child come up and plop beside him with familiarity, the obvious question on her face.

He silently cursed his inability to defend and responded begrudgingly,

“Playing at magic.”

Her look remained unimpressed so he continued,

“This is a do-it-to-it doll. Somewhere it’s happening to another real live dragon. And I’M doing it.”  He made a jab to his chest with a thumb extended from a fist.

He realized having said so the idea relied on a leap of faith. Glancing at her sideways and seeing her charmed, he eased and had a try at being humble.

“And that makes me St. George. The magic dragon slayer. "


A soft mist encircled the early morning moon as it rose from between the sugar trees. The reflective spotlight quickly embraced all that lay in its wake as if tardy and making up for the mistake.

“Merry we meet.”

She stepped into the circle, and lit a white candle on the stone altar.

It was then she felt a dragging motion as if water deadened her limbs and crawled to her neck, holding her firm as if the strangling would be slow over a period of days. At once she became aware of the necklace she had worn since her fifteen birthday. It had become a tight reminder of old songs and past chapters; all hard won to be neatly forgotten. 


 This convincing had the young girl emptying her pockets of the tools and findings of the day. With the look of someone picking out retribution, and with great ceremony he moved his hand over the collection as if sensing energy. With disenchanted enthusiasm his hand hovered over the spilling of broken Coquina, an entire twirl of tangerine peel, a bit of string, a tangle of monofilament, a barbed fishhook and broken stick. He scooped up the fish line and held it out to her.

“Let out the knots and I’ll show you.”

She struggled with that task as he easily fashioned two spears from the twig and shell with the string. He pierced his finger in testing the weapon's worth and raised an eyebrow in expectation of her compliment. She gave up the de-knotting, noting it a ruse to keep her occupied.  She traced his glance to his bloody finger then back to his eyes.



She immediately regretted it. Having gained tribal trust, his smirk now seemed to show dissapointment in grossing her. He doubted this, priding himself on not discriminating upon a person’s gender, as that was to act in ignorance of a deeper truth. He ignored the retort and pushed ahead.

“This is how you kill a frog without really killing it.”


She broke the necklace and tossed it toward the candle, hitting just so, making it sputter then reignite bolder. This became a sign, a chance to reunite the universe. She wanted to burn clean and begin again from the supernatural that is naturally potential.

Walking the perimeter of the circle, she made a safe countenance against the spears of invading authoritarian hierarchy.


The young girl modestly withdrew her body, as she craned her neck toward the experiment for a better look.

Not wanting her help, he positioned the dragon between his feet and held fast as he readied the implements of despair. Ignoring rules of the blood-circle, he challenged the air between himself and the fire breathing foe of medieval legend. A spear in each hand, and with a burst of adrenalin he forced the makeshift arrows into the head of the doll meeting up through the center scale.


She gazed up toward the moon and saw an apparition winging toward her. An ecstatic ride held her in a trance and whispered vaguely in a language she had yet to understand. Two eagles crashed inside her head, exploding in a light unbearably brilliant and the electrical resonance left sparks scattering throughout her being. She tore at her hair until the divine ecstasy eased. Centering herself as the ancient omphalos, she moved out and beyond not looking back.


With a bend and a twist he released the victim from the spears.

The dragon lay disfigured, an interpretation of death.



Her imagination was trumped by anyone walking  into the room.
She took to wearing a hooded sweatshirt backward to avoid commotion.

That went as well as could be expected.

jahh / Some of My Best Friends


He mentally became a bird
, flying overhead, envisioning where he would land on the street map.

He enjoyed using his eyes as a camera. He remembered the first time discovering he could art direct a film in his mind. He was a young boy sitting w/ friends in a one car garage in Santa Cruz. Six tidy folding chairs were arranged toward the Victorian theater. The modest host made final preparations to work the colorful paper stage, characters + props. He patiently waited for the lights to dim. Idly looking over to the shelves, he zeroed in on a heavy volume, cocked his head to silently read the title. A tome cataloguing Picasso’s work. His gaze widened to see another Pablo book just on either side. + another + another... Slowly, indulgently his mental camera pulled back to reveal that the entire wall beheld a multitude of books on the artist Pablo Picasso.

-jahh / Parallel Chances Tend to Neglect


The Medici sure knew a fine piece of land when they
saw it.

We had trekked all afternoon w/ the cypress twisting along the paths. Centenarian statues had few pieces left, so guessing the character became harder + harder to figure. Most were propped + suspended by awkward metal rebar + metal tubes, leaving empty space equivalent to what was missing. A few of them looked as though a game had not ended, as players took turns, rather slowly, fitting in a stone puzzle piece of the body each had been dealt.

We had visited Neptune in his abbreviated habitat. He stood rock on rock, threatening his trident at a menacing water thing, while sea deities hid beneath in the hollows crouched out of the way of him doing his business.

We had chalked the mosaics + taken the obligatory photo ops. Looking around there were literally masses of opportunities begging to be violated.

With all of the other amusements in the Baboli Gardens we were still disappointed that a high sharp wire wall had sealed off the Grotto of Buontalenti. The structure seemed to be in repair, but it didn’t look as though the maintenance man would show anytime soon. Yes, 423 years can be a very long time for fake molten rock to look rather slimy + rotten. i think they may have just got sick + tired of foreigners putting their hands all over it. The day had been planned around visiting Buonarroti’s Prisoners. Actually, the fakes, as the real works were in the Galleria dell'Academia. There, the trumpet in your head goes off for David, not the six prisoners lining the nave. Mickey thought himself a tool of god, + by reckoning god created free-hand, he did the same. W/ the fevered spirit upon him, + chisel in hand he hacked in a cloud of dust to expose the figure locked inside the stone. They call it religious frenzy. What the reality is + always will be — out of time + over budget. These restless men are claustrophobic, possessed, struggling to free themselves from the stone. The figures were abandoned just as they surfaced from a pool of water. Perhaps he was satisfied w/ the bellies emerged shiny + finished like a target.  There are no apologies in the grooves from the chisel. Emotionally charged work has always intrigued me far more than the perfection of David, who in his temple tomb is treated to reverent gazes + hushed voices.

Of course, on the flip side, Mickey may have simply been delighting in a practice of 3/D stone sketching by pulling out muscular, tanned, + sweating bodies of the workers from the Carrara marble quarries.

Oh, how we wanted to climb that dangerous looking barbed wire + walk into that chamber. It was the only way in, unless of course you crawled onto the dangerous looking apogee + dropped in through the ceiling cupola.

We never took these things personally.

After we had gained entrance, we reckoned we were obliged to stay until dark.
The bathing Venus was no longer alone. The painted mural to the back opened the view to the outside world, so you were 'looking out' from the shelter of the grotto. This was a pastoral setting of wild beasts that absently glazed over the landscape w/out threat. The play of faux, relief + dimensional made the grotto look expansive. There was a nice little kitten that had followed us in who apparently took an easier route. She was a bubbly little thing the color of whipped butter making herself at home by loitering w/ stone sheep, + curling up in a Shepard’s goblet.

Michelangelo’s men were impressive in this venue. Two of the prisoners were graced there but not imprisoned by the hardened merd that had been slug everywhere around. The well endowed bearded man + the see-no-evil figure were embedded, but stood out in white form from the other Mannerist sculpture that also inhabited the cave. The two were slumped over + forward, leaning into from opposite corners.

We camped in the back near Rossi’s Helen and Paris. Talking about the surreality of situations, thinking of past moments, + wondering if we would ever think of this one hence.

On our way out in the wee hours the cypress had grown eerie sparkle lights, glowing from the damp ground to the tiptops high above us. They lit up in time, in turn, in tune w/ each other. How thoughtful the lightening bugs had been to enchant the garden. i half expected to see Puck fall out from behind a bush, quote a snatch of Shakespeare + disappear again into the briar.

(kb'd do just about anything just to hear me laugh.)