an artist

the soft clay bends gently below their fingers, the sound of soul pumping into the piece fills the room. the rush of satisfaction, of pure emotion, that embodies the person who controls those hands. those hands stroking and kneading, pounding and smoothing.
all the pressures of living; anxiety, pain, frustration and anger: they all melt away, dripping softly to the floor and forming puddles of unanswered questions and nerves.
the evocation of new, different, beautiful thoughts is worth all the broken fingernails, stained clothing, and painful critiques.

a finished form rests on the table, a perfectly organic and complete reflection of the person that sits in satisfaction, their being wallowing in creation.

notes on life (me and you)

i want to be picked first.
bodybuilders? we've reached the twilight zone.
all-aboard!- this is the last stop till you-know-where.

twist me around your finger, sleep in on warm days, hold your breath for longer, see it all in a green light, dance extra hard, i'm into you.
forget i ever said that.

believe that skin is hard to overcome.
because most are held back by that gentle blanket of nerves.
i want to be willing and free of it.
and able. (add that in.)

just bring me closer.
so i can see that your chin quivers on the offbeat and
holes in pants make for a better pant.

overall, i would say avocados enhance the day.
take a vacation from being rad.
be mine, for once. just ask for the keys.
they support this advancement.

i make a bad choice as each new baby is born.
that’s 245 every minute.
the good ones are harder to tally.

and a welcome, well it ain't cheap, girl.
gimme a hand.
and all the nights.

they want you.

sister

the way we are connected inspires a line on the sand
begin with an “l”, then with wide, deliberate shapes,
complete the word.
reach across the dunes and the fire underneath it all,
breath with me and drop into my arms-
careful, don’t get attached.

i dream of your death and
i wake up, worried that we are too dependent.

my sister, we are the most genuine
you make my eyes glitter and my feet warm
you make my clothes fit better and my art more beautiful
you make the best out of the least
you make me cry when we hug

i’m too afraid of you leaving me too soon,
it’s distracting.

end result

measure the slick imprint
left on the mirror
to track the ones you hadn’t known
to the end and prove that they (you) are
not lost

and tell them again
because

your favorite spoken word is please
it’s a different story in chalk

the reason you stayed was to hear
that last phrase

hoping that it was about
our last day in time travel
or the spaghetti bowls we bought together

the first of few
that failed

and that old mustache perched
on a face i used to know
echoes a soft reminder in my ear
don’t stay

i can see that the result is not
what you had hoped for.

it just isn't

the reason i didn't get up this morning isn't you
it isn't the cold floor
it isn't the shower that only lasted until my hair is soapy
it isn't the empty fridge, bare save for a carton of crusted over ice cream
it isn't the lack of matching shoes
it isn't my hair refusing to stay flat
it isn't the car windows that (still) won't roll up
it isn't the traffic i meet on my way
it isn't the man i pass everyday; we still don't acknowledge each other
it isn't the heavy door i lean against to open

it isn't any of that
if only i knew.

inked

"mine is unique. I designed it myself"
I bet they've done a hundred of those.
The citizens file in.
buzzing, the gun sets to work
enveloped in candid art
they ink a little bit of each person's truth.
A dragon here, a pinup there.

Go in on a quiet day,
they're chatty and real,
bored without their craft to distract
Inked up; advertising

a history lines the walls:
Their favorite
The most challenging
The longest sit

each is a exploration of the lead designer's
Abilities.
these are the true arts
on bodies, in minds.
fast and simple.

"Give me your poor, your tired. Your huddled masses..."

and let me tattoo them.