Medicine
Pay Stub
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
See all
Pay Stub
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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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Collection
Favourites
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Spotlight
Thunder and Still
- July 21
- United States
- Deviant for 13 years
- He / Him
Badges
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
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.
Thank you!
Happy, Birthday, Kev! 
Thank you!
Hi, Kevin. 
Hi sweet! Hope you are well!
Hope you're well, too.