The Coffee Shop

October 15, 2017


We get such enjoyment from our morning coffee, as we scan the news in the paper some early-rising patron left behind

The shootings, the rapes, the missing children…some order their coffee black, the bitter bite is a pat on the back

The poverty, the hunger, the creeping epidemic…some take their coffee with cream and sugar, it’s such a sweet, pleasant taste

We spy a blurb on the back page about a young soldier who lost his legs in Afghanistan, then we walk to the counter and order another cup. 

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He looked so handsome with the handgun he found hidden on a shelf

He aimed it at his mirror and whispered yippee ki-yay, motherfucker! to himself

He looked so handsome with the handgun he considered taking it to school

Girls would finally notice him, they’d all think he was so cool

All the guys would gather ’round, begging to be friends 

He’d let them take turns holding it, the attention would never end

Maybe he’d leave it in his backpack for protection when he’s chased

Instead he raised it to his head, and blew off half his face

He looked so handsome with the handgun he found hidden on a shelf

Summer Swam Fast

August 16, 2017


Summer swam fast this year

Now the house is dark and still

Each season gains strength and speed, it seems

Leaving voids to fill 

“Remember the good times,” they always say

But the good times never last

Life is but a ticking clock

‘Til all our time has lapsed. 

Pollock’s Mural 

August 5, 2017


I was finally able to view a Jackson Pollock. Not just any Pollock, but arguably the greatest Pollock — Mural. Certainly the greatest in stature, at almost 9’x20′, if not the greatest artistically. And if not the “best,” it was at least a turning point when Pollock, who was commissioned by wealthy socialite Peggy Guggenheim to fill a wall in her townhouse, began painting large-scale works. 

Much has been written about the painting. Pollock, a relatively unknown artist at the time, was hired by Guggenheim in June of 1943. He received a $150 per month stipend (equal to about $2100 today) and was to have the work ready for a show in November of the same year. Legend has it that when November rolled around, the giant canvas remained untouched. Pollock claimed to have completed the painting during one creative outpouring sometime in late December (later testing proves the work was not entirely painted at one time, however), and said that the painting came from an inspirational vision the Wyoming native had. “(It was) a stampede…every animal in the American West, cows and horses and antelopes and buffaloes. Everything is charging across that goddamn surface.” 

Standing alone on a hot summer day inside the cool halls of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, MO, where Mural is on loan from the University of Iowa, I was able to truly take in the artwork. While it isn’t my favorite painting, and Pollock isn’t my favorite artist, it is something to behold. I stood as far as possible and viewed the painting as a whole. I could visualize the stampede, yet was also able to let my eyes lose focus and get lost in the free-flowing, yet repetitive, form. In some way I felt as though I was being watched. It is intriguing and mysterious. 


I walked the length of the painting — back and forth — imagining how difficult it would be to keep the work consistent, yet maintain the subtle differences throughout. I stood with my face inches from the canvas, studying the lines, the splatters and perhaps unintentional drips (Mural was finished several years before Pollock started his drip paintings), the layers, the textures…and all the other tiny details hidden in the monstrous piece. 




I imagined Pollock’s studio — his apartment, which had to have a wall secretly removed in order for the canvas to fit —  and what it might have been like. The smell of paint and turpentine was undoubtedly and obnoxiously mixed with the cigarette smoke that hung in the air. Pollock’s thick, boozy breath clung to the wet paint, and his dripping sweat became forever a part of the artwork. Maybe a jazz record played in the background. Perhaps Pollock worked in silent solitude. What was going through his mind? Did he sit and eat a ham sandwich at some midway point, staring at the unfinished work and wondering what the hell to do next? Where were his first and last brush strokes? Was Pollock pleased with the completed work? 

While I’m a lover of art, I’m no historian or expert. I see what I like, and what I like makes me wonder. Art makes me think in ways that I don’t normally. I believe that’s why I’m drawn to it. Mural certainly made me wonder. It made me think. It drew me in. If you get the chance, I highly recommend viewing it. 

when love was banished 

June 24, 2017


when love was banished we had just fallen in love 

refusing to say goodbye we went on the run 

we hid on an island and played in the sun

the authorities found us and fired their guns

we died together that day…

but love won 

The City

June 1, 2017


Some people can’t wait to escape the city in their search for happiness

They drive some shiny SUV out to the countryside every weekend, breathing in the clean air, sitting alone in the warm sun, feeling the soft grass under their feet…pondering life’s meaning while staring into that vast, empty sky

That’s probably real nice and all, but many folks never get to leave the city — the bus simply doesn’t go that far 

Some of us learned to find refuge and joy right here

We weave in and out of the skyscrapers’ shadows, running our fingers over the corroding textures, counting the faded bricks placed one at a time by some tired man’s hands, nodding to the shop-keepers having a quick smoke on the sidewalk, drinking in the history…finding strange comfort in knowing that others walked these streets before us, and many more will do so long after our shoes have worn out

I guess — for some of us — pondering life seems less important than making sure to live it

Still, of course, I sometimes ponder… 

The Pier 

May 28, 2017


Summer is when we jumped off the pier

Immortal, for all we knew, as we sprang from the rotting wood, held together by stubborn rusting nails, ever so slowly losing their grasp

The pier is long gone now of course, the weary nails gave in and let go, as we all eventually do

Oh how I long for one last leap