Friday, February 6, 2015

Department of Life Imitating Art

Overheard in our grocery store, Stater Brothers, as two very young women rummage in the ice cream bar case:  "Do you think you'll die tragically young?"

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Bieber Fieber!

I tend to try spend a lot of time trying to hang out with the high aesthetic band, meditating on the arts and on Art, or at least on the absurdity of the world. Therefore, when a friend sent me a book wrapped in genuine Justin Bieber wrapping paper, 99 cents a roll at his local Goodwill thrift store, I had to document it. Trying to imagine what company decision-maker thought this would be a winner. 

Monday, December 29, 2014

May the next year bring
recognition of the possibilities
in familiar settings
and the surprise
of the familiar
in unexpected settings.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Message from the deep

There's nothing quite like a fine big fish in your doctor's waiting room to keep you from worrying while you're waiting for your appointment. This particular fish has been there for years. He spurns some people but always comes over to the glass for us.

Monday, November 24, 2014

Hot damn! another Pushcart nomination

Thank you Savvy Thorne and everyone else at Conclave: A Journal of Character ( for nominating my poem, "Our Lady of the Red Potatoes", for the 2016 Pushcart Prize. I'd been working on this poem for six years, and submitting it along the way without landing anywhere. Couldn't give up on it, though.

For those who don't know about Pushcart, or who wish to know more, here is their website:

Our Lady of the Red Potatoes 

Our Lady of the Red Potatoes
has set her altar on a city bench.
She hunches small. No star-blue mantle
shielding her from winter light.
Hunger-thin and gray, not old,
in Rhino Records’ parking lot she calls
Red potatoes, red, six for a dollar.

Her eyes squeeze shut. I watch
her roughened hands
read each potato’s face.
She listens for their low voices.
Her hands receive the messages
her gods have scrawled there.
Behold, she hands to me
six red potatoes, red, six for a dollar,
thin-skinned potatoes bigger than my fist.

I rasp potato peel, twirl out their eyes,
prepare to receive the mystic meal
of red potatoes, red, six for a dollar.
No healing or redemption from our lady,
just nature’s artless poison, pure green gift
of alkaloids, red potatoes green as glass.
They are fallen from the earth into the light,
sun-stroked like their lady.