Confession

What am I doing here, you ask?
I've got no place left to go.

You want a confession?
Wrap your goulash around this.

I'm a murderer. I've pointed a revolver at another man's chin, cocked back the hammer, and pulled that heavy trigger until the hammer swung down and smashed into the blasting cap. I watched his face explode in slow motion, and I marveled at the lovely pattern his brains made on the powder blue wall behind him. He's still alive, but I'm a murderer all the same.

You want more?
Pull down your sequin sunglasses and take a gander at this.

I'm an adulterer. I've been in bed with hundreds of of different women in my life. I used her body, but she never saw mine. I degraded and humiliated her, and to top it all off these lovely ladies never knew my name or saw my face.

Are you sick of it yet?

I've cheated, lied, stolen, broken, beaten, coveted, slandered... I think you're starting to get the picture.

Why am I here on the bloody ground in front of this ancient torture device? I've got no other place left to go.

Approach

#1

I don't feel as You can. I can't.
Incapable as a shoe.
In some fashion
It manages to be
Simultaneously unbearable
And absolutely Right.

#2

Don't give me a second thought.
No no, you just eat and expound and caffeinate.
Why would I want your condition?
Lucky for me, it's about as contagious as a parked car.

#3

My:
A made-up
Plastic
Flammable concept.
Draw it out.
Delivered by the snake,
Accepted under skin, then
It festers
Erasing bone,
Consuming blood,
Creating lack.

Direction for a Self-Portrait

I’d start with a round shape. Well, I guess if we’re going to get fancy, let’s do almond. A Japanese person once told me I had an almond-shaped face. But they’re strange that way, always eating seaweed and bean curd and stuff.

Add some yellowy snarls of hair around that thing. Imperfectly parted and disobedient. Include some commentary from my grandmas while you’re at it – twenty-eight years into this thing called life and they still can’t get over that I have curly hair. Maybe they’re jealous I won’t need a permanent when it’s time for the round-head all women are fated for. Or maybe they’re flipping through the files of their brothers and sisters, in laws and uncles by way of my tresses, remembering which ones had curly hair, too, and how it was in great uncle Gordon’s hair as well. But we don’t talk much about him.

Don’t forget the fixings. Lips that pull over smallish teeth and gargantuan gums, two bluey eyes, a set of ears and an Anglo-Saxon beak. And skin. Sticks of concealer have told me I’m fair, ivory, light cream. I would suggest tying a whitish crayon to a pinkish one to an orangish one and giving the forehead a good scribble. You’ll get the point.

And of course there are the smatterings:

: The mini crater on the seam of my left nostril, once an astoundingly large pimple in tenth grade. My dad called it my twin sister. Mary Simensen and I, in our genius way of prescribing topical remedies, slathered wart remover on it. It burned through my skin – no, I should say it ate through my skin. But I guess it did the job.

: Scar on the bottom of my chin from a tragic roller skating accident.

: Slight circles under eyes.

: Constant flaring of nostrils (if you can do that on paper, that’d be great).

If you want to apply a general feel, I’d bend pieces and lines to the tune of intrigued - maybe an eyebrow up, or something. It’s OK if you can’t erase it. It’s a good idea to me. A life full of questions and interest and pursuit.

Shaving Day

It's the last day of march, and that means time to shave off my two year beard and make way for Mustache April. That's right. Mustache April.

I must admit, there were a few tears streaming down my cheeks as I sheared off my long luxurious face-mane.

Oh well, it will certainly grow back, but for now I will enjoy a solidarity of one. Let Mustache April begin!

More Rough Stuff.

I stutter here

trying to pull down words

metaphors

clever twists

that can spell love, thankfulness and desire

I want to leverage them like boulders from my mind

so they could roll down this page

but my hand is weak on the lever

and my mind slow and stuttering

Because thses boulders are too big for a page

too big for a day

too big for me

too big for me

the wieght of your love is five blankets in december keeping me from the cold

the wieght of my thankfulness is the weight of water in june pressing your ears but holding your body free

The weight of my desire is the is the wieght of gravity, unyealding , inevitible , constant

So I stutter

try my hand

determined to return

and attempt to leverage again

It's never enough.

Zenith Lake

Back to the grove of ancient trees I take my soul, I take my soul
Beyond the sunset and the moon, out past the twilight in the north
Beneath the shadow of their age voices whispered with respect
To climb is to ascend the sky, the windblown symphony on high.

Back to the stillness of the lake I take my soul, I take my soul
Through broken trails and splashing brook, out past the twilight in the north
Floating on our tiny ark, two by two we paddle through
Shelter from the cities flood of noise, filth, and senseless blood.