What if

What if your eyes turned the color of that azure blue from staring too long at the sky.

What if you looked long enough between those two blades of grass to see the feet of your beloved coming back to you from the other side.

What if you knew, without a doubt, that this death was a birth, and this birth was a death.

The fruit on the apple trees swell with moisture and sweetness. The baby juncos have long left the nest. This place that I sit has memories of over a hundred feet shuffling across the ground…

Each pair carrying a hope, a dream, a prayer… a fear, disdain, and crippling hopelessness.

Under those stars, I held my hand up with tobacco and sweet grass. Under those stars, I held them wrapped in a blanket. Every cell in my body conjoined with the prayer and hope for their well-being.

What if I got to see you, whole again, walking away from that circle. My heart would dance at your feet like a small puppy.

I may not know much, but I do know this – I look into your eyes and I see fire, and water, and songs, and a tree.

And when your heart has been freed, a little piece of me will travel with you.

Travel well, my friend. I may not see you again, but I will always hold you in the highest of hopes. Thank you for letting me.

There will be

many moments to come for you to “be” in.

Let them wash over you like water. The world outside will still be here, waiting for you.

 

On the nature of making art

I have tried to put something into words, here. Using a language that I can only hope might extend beyond the limitations of our truncated vernacular.

I have extended this fragile, green tender shoot of myself out into the open air… Curious, and inquiring. 

I hold out this hand, and invite you to jump in the hopes that you see something familiar.
Outside of this consented reality exists a wildness and a knowing that we never left behind. I beg you to remember, & to remember with me…

Art is a drug

Rage and despair are both muses that carry a whip…

Desperation rides in on the tailcoats of deadlines and pressure with the torch, setting fire to all the superfluous.

Final presentation is the agonizing ecstasy of the rib cage being opened, the heart being removed, and the pressure is finally released. A birth accompanied by an orgasm…

Exposure to the public reveals the child that has come forth. Stunning in its beauty, and disbelief that this could have possibly come from you.

Postpartum depression comes in quickly to close the gap. A blanket of gray to shroud the vessel. It beckons the dishes to be done, the floor to be swept.

And the meditation of what the hell did you just do and why would you ever do that again.

Art is a drug…

what needs to be said

There are times when things need to be said.
There are times when they don’t.

There are times when the silence of observation becomes paramount, as the world spins around and my ideas of what is and isn’t are churned into a soup of grey.

Like the time when I looked down on you. When you finally stopped talking. When I saw that world of need open up through the clouds of your posturing.

Yes. I saw you. I understand… I just wish you had gone about this a little bit different. Yes, I know I have it in me. I know why you did this. Maybe, in the end, I really did need to be tricked again…

Hidden behind a host of words, was the most tender need. Something that could not be said, something that I could not have heard.

Not with words, anyway.

The universe seems to take delight in leading me by the nose into blind 90 degree corners. Or maybe, I just took too much comfort in the direction that I thought I was going.

There are words that are allocated for only the titillation of spirits. Phrases to invoke the invisible, the ancestors, the spirits of the wood.

There are movements allocated for only the seduction of the flesh.

Either way, I am a student of both. I lay my hands before me, and invite you to dance there. I promise to do my best to see through your veil and invoke both your spirit and your flesh…

The gifting

For the want of water,

I drank from the river.

For the want of air,

I took breath from the storm.

For the want of my spirit,

I joined hands with you

to sing to the ones

who feed us.

An offering was accepted 

and what came back was 

the overwhelming gift to walk

here on this earth

with my heart lifted to the clouds.

The earth flowed

and a star came down

to nestle in my belly.

Breaking point

There comes a time
Where I am finally tired enough
Worn down enough

Pained enough

Like a motorcycle going down the road
A breakneck speed, 

bolts flying off 

and the fringe is tattered

The suicide handles 

wobble a bit and 

sparks rise as each piece 

hits the road. 

Like a ceremonial Dancer

Where the thirst reaches a point
Where the skin almost breaks
Where the feet blister

And the knees almost give

Darkest before the dawn, they say

Where the will to hang on to 

that one last shred of evidence 

That gives procurement to the past

I let go of the hand 

Of that suicide jumper 

And watch her drift away from me 

into the air deep beneath bridge.

The expression on her face 

forever emblazoned in my mind.

I will breathe again.

Persephone’s Rose

Not yours, my love.

Nobody’s, really, except for 

my own hopes and expectations.

A little string of incidences 

that slowly dropped my heart.

That’s what I get for resting my heart

on a little string.

A knot here, a tear there.

The road to desire and affection 

is a bumpy and capricious ride.

I pull that string back to me, 

a fisherman retreating his line 

from the deep.

The tattered end a lost tassel

from some fleeing belly dancer 

that dropped her shoe 

rushing out the door.

The catch was lost 

along with the bait 

and she stuffs her beautiful dress 

in the cedar chest 

at the back of the closet

Perhaps to never see 

the light of day again

Solitude, with a splash of bitterness 

best served on a long, pouty stem.

I will fill my days 

with chickadees & driftwood…

I will take myself to the show,

perhaps wearing those 

dapper new pants 

and a drop of rose perfume

behind my ears.

Hope is Persephone’s Rose.



I’m an artist, Jim, not a physicist

































Nightkiss

I leave the window open at night

These nights are cold enough

That I still feed the woodstove.

I sit outside, listening to the frogs

Then come in, grateful for this dry warmth

But, when I crawl into bed

I leave the window open

So I can stick my toes out

And feel the night breeze

What luxury, tucked under & snuggled up 

in the warmth of dreams

Carried by my toes bathed 

In the breath of moonlight

This soft down of air

Sweeter than any goose breast

Curls around my feet

And teases my imagination

What kiss might be carried

By this gentle breeze?

What sweetheart might wish me good sleep

And pleasant dreams?