Sun-streaked topaz,
of faint silhouette,
woman gulping phrases,
uncanny mirror’s orbital,
of resonance,
in blind recess,
seeing, hearing icicled image,
psychic blobs melt,
in close locus,
hair-raising halo,
hallucinate my opal eyes,
sultry smokescape,
furnace of,
walnut garland,
from ambling weeper,
whose shaken trauma,
I shudder and pine for,
at red coal pit of,
my abdominal agony,
this lava veiled,
human’s sideswipe,
“you remind me of someone,”
whilst being eclipsed,
by vanilla vapours,
in a hazy billow,
rippling stream heart,
inducing isthmus of,
harrowing bereavement,
blue vault fluke
surreal concoction,
shrouded in mystique,
enigmatic shroud,
shrouded pang,
otherworldly episode
Sun-streaked topaz,
of faint silhouette,
woman gulping phrases,
uncanny mirror’s orbital,
of resonance,
in blind recess,
seeing, hearing icicled image,
psychic blobs melt,
in close locus,
hair-raising halo,
hallucinate my opal eyes,
sultry smokescape,
furnace of,
walnut garland,
from ambling weeper,
whose shaken trauma,
I shudder and pine for,
at red coal pit of,
my abdominal agony,
this lava veiled,
human’s sideswipe,
“you remind me of someone,”
whilst being eclipsed,
by vanilla vapours,
in a hazy billow,
My brain is in brine.
My neurons are loose stones.
Some things are more dented than a mental image.
The greatest stuff is in soup cans.
Whatever makes you open such a thing.
Is not hunger.
It’s a centipede that reminds you to be hungry.
Blobs.
My neurons are loose.
The greatest stuff is in soup cans.
Prickly, squirmy.
The empty can on the floor.
The carcass.
The lava blobs have no fixed form,
Each rising, glowing in a surging storm.
They gather, swell, then they drift apart,
Ascending from a soft, warm, molten heart.
Each shining bloom appears by chance,
Like new romance in a fleeting dance.
No shape is promised, none can stay!
Yet every bloom brightens someone's day!
Lava lingers, oozes, slow and wise,
It never asks, nor wonders, reasons why.
It climbs with hope, then sinks with disgrace,
Leaving warmth well behind without a trace.
Its flow is mesmerizing to see,
Each pulse returns, yet differently.
Like waves that break upon a shore,
Or clouds that churn, billow, and soar.
Love, too, will swell, gently yield,
Reshaping all that lies below concealed.
It folds and melds, to find more space,
Surging in moments of brief borrowed grace.
No form can hold what hearts pursue,
Yet every change reveals something new.
Billowing, beyond what hands have caught,
Until the longing, finds the shape it sought.
If I was a reliable narrator?
Gave up all my inheritance from the space party.
Maybe I would be a little less jolted.
Give myself a chance to jump across flimsy lily pads.
She held a frisbee in her hand.
Tossed it like pencils, like when I screamed in class, threw my desk in slow motion.
Yet still revolving around under the coldness.
Like an ice sculpture in my head.
She had honest, plentiful voices.
She had a blank space where her tool box used to be.
She tossed her inheritance like blobs of jelly.
I came to life in five ways, and they don’t believe me!
Maybe I need to take a break from the narration, sounds, and struggles.
Narration, mumble, mumble.
There’s something so honest about the voices.
They stand up like they have feet, and want to toss a frisbee.
My life is an inheritance of voices.
(“Crappy Collective Karma Happens Too Merit Badge”, 2014, original oil)
Asteroids are a real thing
And every time they come to visit Earth
Our old gal gets mighty hot
So hot it usually ushers in a whole new era
Of flora and fauna.
Now we might like the old
Especially when it includes us
But we also tend to like the new
Especially when it includes us.
In other words we humans are selfishly fickle
But also smart enough to know
It’s no use to try and stop an asteroid
Or cry over the cataclysmic changes they bring.
So what do we do?
Put on a happy face,
Bury the dead, rebuild the cities,
And if that doesn’t work
Hope some of our junk DNA at least
Survives the purging fires
To rise phoenix-like
Into the next stage of Earth’s life.
At some point we outgrow the limits
Of our individuality, let alone humanity
And see we’re really only
Walking, talking blobs of Earth.
(11/11/25)
Trauma.
It’s like blobs in eternity.
Grappling around with trembling or not.
Trembling or nothing.
A nothing day.
Just a nothing type of flower bud.
Just a do nothing burden feeling.
Scrambled clouds happen to me.
It is called nonexistence.
Me.
Has bubbles burbling.
Almost felt like my own.
Was almost me.
But I got eclipsed by some friendly nonexistence.
Shifted like ice cream fell off the cone.
Splattered like the end.
Endless week-long shivering.
Speckled with leftover goosebumps.
No one called all week.
It’s almost like trauma.
Continues.
Eating ice cubes off the floor.
Feeling something on the shore.
As if there’s a vacation in my hand.
Like chunks of avocado in the sand.
Chewing on blobs and other plant-like things.
A voice as the doorbell rings.
Chuckling, and rumbling doorbell sounds.
There’s some sort of magic that abounds.
Chomping down on the floorboards.
Holding onto invisible cords.
Which are actually chunks of skin falling down.
And one falls on my head like a crown.
Eating ice cubes off the floor and the doorbell rings.
Like a vacuum cleaner that likes clear, icy things.
Dangling from overhead.
Are monsters pretending to be hanging houseplants instead.
Like a monstrous cube, or rolling ball.
It was me who took the fall.
With marbles growing and splintering too.
Chunks are blue.
Blobs, chunks, and things.
Chewing sounds and the doorbell rings.
Invisible vacation howling.
The crashing sounds of scowling.
There was an ice cube, fell to the ground.
Dissolved with a hissing sound.
No one believes at all.
Maybe I’ll grow more marbles next fall!
I have to crane my neck
the small coterie is pressed together.
The svelte tailored nose-whisperer
of a docent remarks:
“You have to see the hidden in the hidden.”
He is all neck and bowtie,
one eyebrow is raised
expecting us to know what he means.
Some nod, some wipe their eyeglasses
hoping to see the unseen more clearly.
I look up at the ceiling, it's a nice ceiling.
I am only here in this art gallery
because of the rain.
I try to take the painting in
from a larger point of view,
but there are backs
and back-packs,
there are slowly dripping rain hats.
Our guide is droning on,
going to a place
where a disjoined flower in a vase,
can be a post-revolutionary revelation
of something or other,
and obviously much, much more
than a few abstract blobs of color.
Tomorrow, I promise myself
to carry an umbrella.
My process is like dots.
Not stars, just nothing dots.
Rearranging.
Tangled netting and dragonfly parts.
Whatever I can grab and throw in the shopping cart.
That sinks through the tile.
I thought things were solid for once.
Then the holes got torn up.
And the dragonfly eyes too.
Disintegrated.
In such a poem which is made of sentences and more.
My process is like dots.
Spiky, horned dots.
Maybe a few blobs and globs enticing.
The end of a poem isn’t scary.
Or strange.
It's thirsty, but the end is that drink.
My process.
Like a pen that doesn’t worry about anything.
Nothing dots and dragonfly parts.
Wheeling me away.
Like they did five years ago.
My boobs are sneaky
inching themselves toward the floor
they were once firm and perky
now they are flabby giant jello blobs
stretching toward ground zero
whether I am looking or not
do I care?
worse.
Not only do I not care
I am no longer amused by them
MONITOR
Just there for display, my role is passive
Just on off or sleep, as I never do much
As I’m of that older generation, you see
We even used to be designated an LCD
Yet familiar with acronyms, such as USB
But now, some are responding to touch
And ever larger, some are quite massive
Proud of my role, and to be clearly seen
Although of an age, my pixels are intact
The dusted surface still retains that gloss
No blobs or lines up and down or across
And some shame to concede such a loss
It’s still not bad how all the colours react
But at end of the day, I am just a screen
The sweet jasmine scent
Lingering in my room
Wafting through open windows
Drifting by unlocked doors
Shirts, sweaters, and jackets
Lying across the area
Lifeless blobs of fabric
Floating in a sea
Ziplock bags of words
Lonely vocabulary cards sitting
On my messy table
Reigning alone over procrastination
A silent snow globe
Standing in the corner
Waiting to be awakened
Everlasting snowflakes flying everywhere
Blobs
I forgive the
24 mould blobs strewn about on
the ceiling almost every time they
about-turn because
they bring me
crackers when I
crave crackers.
gestural
abstraction
immediate
spontaneous
drips blobs
from the tube
non-formal
un-formulated
art informel
sans cérémonie
an
absence
of
a premeditated
structure
conception
or approach
dribbled
splashed
smeared
an emphasis
upon
the physical
process
itself
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