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Reconfiguring Social Constructs
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Medicine

Pay Stub

P

Pay Stub

The inhale and the exhale, two weeks' respiration in gasps and wheezes, debit diseases; twenty-six Fridays a year circled red, twenty-six days we can breathe in without pain; but then, again: the bills get scratched in, need groceries, need gin, the car still needs gas, credit card's on our ass; breathing out those long hours into check-writing prowess - like air, it runs out; too soon we've expelled every penny as breath; winded, we climb back in the wheel to run madly again, tides washing out, oxygen changed slowly to carbon dioxide fourteen days left until we can breathe in.

Home

H

Home

I lived here, once, shaving moments into jars sealed tight, so I could look at them later. My recollections gathered dust in all my cobwebby corners, stacked upon each other and wrinkled. Sometimes at night a box bursts open, flowing up before me, too much light in the darkness, old cardboard wet in the basement. I lived here, once, when the memories were fresh.

Mozart and Crayons

M

Mozart and Crayons

A chapel, window-stained perfect, notes of the orchestra rebounding against the thick black oak of the pews. A lady bug is flitting in and out of the stage lights, drawn to the heat or the music; how must this seem in the senses of an insect? Vibrations tripping over each other, pushing the air before them in waves; what is the thrum of the timpani, when even polite applause ripples the very fabric beneath your wings? Maybe, like birds against the rush of highway traffic, swooping in to catch the thrill of displaced air, her hovers and dives are shaped by the invisible tide of the violins, the bassoon. Perched upon

For Nelson Mandela

F

For Nelson Mandela

In this cup, I once held the world; you were so tiny, skin like starlight against my worn and tired hands. In the years and the hate, I could not always keep you close. I gave my life to piercing the darkness and you, cupped in these hands, you gave me light. You forged my knees straight and standing when I wanted them to buckle. This world I have tried to build for you is suddenly empty - these cracked fingers, once etching the course of the river of history, no longer hold water.

Things We Don't Know

T

Things We Don't Know

She doesn't know I love her in the steps between strawberry dotted acres and the old gravel trails, where the dogs run free, playful barking into wind and the old squirrel-scents; she doesn't know that some nights the melody she sings - notes dripping like a showerhead - is the highlight of my day. In the silence of sleep she frets and twists, afraid and dreaming I will find greener leaves of grass, seas of a brighter blue, or cleaner flavors on the breeze; she doesn't know in the circle of her arms only I sleep peaceful at last.

Tethers

T

Tethers

Tethers Small patches of color sprinkle over her when he's away tending the gray fields. Browsing an old photo album, these small hours of quiet she's left with, she soaks in the spectrums so many years ago; crowded markets in Delhi, or floating in the icy captured roll of the Rockies. He was strength in skin when they met, And her feet were so very sore from walking, the dust that covered her crusted continents and his just the healthy grit of black farming soil. His rough hands helped reshape her, brought her home to birth, the long drawing hours he sweated away from her. For seasons her reasons stayed with her, befo

Wanderlust

W

Wanderlust

Wanderlust In those harrowing moments between texts you send from Spain; that rooftop in Prague; you drinking Absinthe and me, my desk in the heartless land, how I hate you - an organ, somewhere lower than my beating heart, your rhythm echoing lonely into my diaphragm. A cadence in your voice zips between my pulse, cackling that I have settled. Dust such as we should never. Your eyes look into the world I try to write in darkness. You are the photograph I have never taken.  You are the part of me which terror does not allow.

Folsom

F

Folsom

Folsom It was on the dripping Saturday mornings, grass heavy, wet; the air hanging out the windows in gray streaks; when the TV was on the fritz, or reruns painted its numbing swirl in the colors of boredom. That was the type of morning Johnny Cash found his way to the top of the battered stack; we'd sing of Folsom Prison in our pajamas, eat pancakes while he danced around the faded room, weaving between us, spilling parts of himself he didn't believe in, even as the sun ushered out the mists; and the yard – once sodden – birthed its own green sheen. We were too young then, to hear the end of the story: to und
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Medicine

Pay Stub

P

Pay Stub

The inhale and the exhale, two weeks' respiration in gasps and wheezes, debit diseases; twenty-six Fridays a year circled red, twenty-six days we can breathe in without pain; but then, again: the bills get scratched in, need groceries, need gin, the car still needs gas, credit card's on our ass; breathing out those long hours into check-writing prowess - like air, it runs out; too soon we've expelled every penny as breath; winded, we climb back in the wheel to run madly again, tides washing out, oxygen changed slowly to carbon dioxide fourteen days left until we can breathe in.

Home

H

Home

I lived here, once, shaving moments into jars sealed tight, so I could look at them later. My recollections gathered dust in all my cobwebby corners, stacked upon each other and wrinkled. Sometimes at night a box bursts open, flowing up before me, too much light in the darkness, old cardboard wet in the basement. I lived here, once, when the memories were fresh.

Mozart and Crayons

M

Mozart and Crayons

A chapel, window-stained perfect, notes of the orchestra rebounding against the thick black oak of the pews. A lady bug is flitting in and out of the stage lights, drawn to the heat or the music; how must this seem in the senses of an insect? Vibrations tripping over each other, pushing the air before them in waves; what is the thrum of the timpani, when even polite applause ripples the very fabric beneath your wings? Maybe, like birds against the rush of highway traffic, swooping in to catch the thrill of displaced air, her hovers and dives are shaped by the invisible tide of the violins, the bassoon. Perched upon

For Nelson Mandela

F

For Nelson Mandela

In this cup, I once held the world; you were so tiny, skin like starlight against my worn and tired hands. In the years and the hate, I could not always keep you close. I gave my life to piercing the darkness and you, cupped in these hands, you gave me light. You forged my knees straight and standing when I wanted them to buckle. This world I have tried to build for you is suddenly empty - these cracked fingers, once etching the course of the river of history, no longer hold water.

Things We Don't Know

T

Things We Don't Know

She doesn't know I love her in the steps between strawberry dotted acres and the old gravel trails, where the dogs run free, playful barking into wind and the old squirrel-scents; she doesn't know that some nights the melody she sings - notes dripping like a showerhead - is the highlight of my day. In the silence of sleep she frets and twists, afraid and dreaming I will find greener leaves of grass, seas of a brighter blue, or cleaner flavors on the breeze; she doesn't know in the circle of her arms only I sleep peaceful at last.

Tethers

T

Tethers

Tethers Small patches of color sprinkle over her when he's away tending the gray fields. Browsing an old photo album, these small hours of quiet she's left with, she soaks in the spectrums so many years ago; crowded markets in Delhi, or floating in the icy captured roll of the Rockies. He was strength in skin when they met, And her feet were so very sore from walking, the dust that covered her crusted continents and his just the healthy grit of black farming soil. His rough hands helped reshape her, brought her home to birth, the long drawing hours he sweated away from her. For seasons her reasons stayed with her, befo

Wanderlust

W

Wanderlust

Wanderlust In those harrowing moments between texts you send from Spain; that rooftop in Prague; you drinking Absinthe and me, my desk in the heartless land, how I hate you - an organ, somewhere lower than my beating heart, your rhythm echoing lonely into my diaphragm. A cadence in your voice zips between my pulse, cackling that I have settled. Dust such as we should never. Your eyes look into the world I try to write in darkness. You are the photograph I have never taken.  You are the part of me which terror does not allow.

Folsom

F

Folsom

Folsom It was on the dripping Saturday mornings, grass heavy, wet; the air hanging out the windows in gray streaks; when the TV was on the fritz, or reruns painted its numbing swirl in the colors of boredom. That was the type of morning Johnny Cash found his way to the top of the battered stack; we'd sing of Folsom Prison in our pajamas, eat pancakes while he danced around the faded room, weaving between us, spilling parts of himself he didn't believe in, even as the sun ushered out the mists; and the yard – once sodden – birthed its own green sheen. We were too young then, to hear the end of the story: to und
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Spotlight

Thunder and Still

7Comments
  • July 21
  • United States
  • Deviant for 13 years
  • He / Him
Badges
birthdAy '10: decade of deviousness
I Heart DeviantArt Gear: Proud supporter of deviantGEAR
Delicious Cake: My, that's a delicious cake (1)Delicious Cake: My, that's a delicious cake (1)Delicious Cake: My, that's a delicious cake (1)
Super Llama: Llamas are awesome! (26)
My Bio
Current Residence: about a block west of Sesame Street
deviantWEAR sizing preference: M-or L
Favourite genre of music: Anything that makes me want to move and/or sing
Favourite photographer: lots
Shell of choice: Turtle
Wallpaper of choice: Kermit the Frog
Skin of choice: Yours...Rrrraow.
Favourite cartoon character: Marvin the Martian - Stewie - Foamy
Personal Quote: "Listen to your life - all moments are key moments" - Frederick Buechner

Favourite Visual Artist
Picasso, Van Gogh
Favourite Movies
Boondock Saints, Wag the Dog, Empire Strikes Back, The Dark Knight
Favourite TV Shows
Dexter, Dollhouse,
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Anyone that makes me feel
Favourite Writers
Pablo Neruda, Walt Whitman, Orsan Scott Card
Favourite Games
Mercenaries, Spider-Man 2, Wipeout, GTA San Andreas
Favourite Gaming Platform
Playstation 2
Tools of the Trade
Pen, computer, charcoal pencil, camera
Other Interests
writing, photography, fencing, sketching, singing, disc golf

'Once More unto the Breach, dear friends...a

'Once More unto the Breach, dear friends...a

We are now within one week to the opening of Dreamwell's "Henry V" - this cast kicks total Elizabethan ass!  I hope to stay on my toes and keep up with the quality they are setting! Locals (and travelers) can reserve tix at  www.dreamwell.com  - this won't be your momma's Shakespeare! Shows are June 3, 4, 10 & 11 @ 7:30P, and June 5 & 12 @ 2PM. And if you can't make the show next weekend, my friend ~marzguy (https://www.deviantart.com/marzguy) will have the Montserrat Poetry Festival in full swing! Ooooooooh, I sense road-trip possibilities! Missourri for the festival, then to Iowa for Henry the second weekend!

The Feast of Crispian

The Feast of Crispian

Once again, please forgive, cuz I have faded away from DA in the wake of a busy life.  Good things, mostly, have kept me from sitting at my little desk very much. The time I took "off" to focus on work, recovery and the beginnings of my term as el Presidente was short-lived. A cancellation by the male lead in our first show of the year, Last Train to Nibroc, had me stepping in with a seriously shortened rehearsal schedule. As this was a two-person show, it meant a lot of intense line work and rehearsal. Next, I was cast in the political play, Stuff Happens, which goes up in April. This show pulls no punches as it looks at the public (and no

Happy Holidays

Happy Holidays

First off, apologies to all of my friends and deviant homies, for being practically non-existent on DA for so long. I want to once again thank everyone for the support you've shown me after my recent DD, and all the new watchers who have taken a deeper look at my gallery and liked what they've seen. Secondly, I want to wish you a happy merry christ-kwanz-yule-akkuh. May your holiday(s) of choice bring you joy and peace.

Comments 547

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enjoying your work -- amazing gallery.
Happy, Birthday, Kev! :D
Hi sweet! Hope you are well!
Hope you're well, too. :hug: