when life imitates art~

In the little known gallery,
I smiled and surprised him into watching me as
I watched him work,

The exciting little things he did for me,
when he finger-painted my belly like an early
Jackson Pollock.
Showering me with volatile reds, blues
that swirled and wrapped around my naked back
like lava
or glacier rivers when his hands were cold.

The words he said,
when we talked in tongues on an Austrian balcony
and the stars were hiding
from the excitement, the fear, and
the thought of flight back home, that blue period
when night dissipates to light.

He captured
the flame from my bedside candle in his arms
wrapped it ‘round my shoulders and sketched in the details.
Those fine lines of
late nights and stiff drinks
leaving their lasting mark.

Somehow it happened that
we can no longer stand to stand apart
and I must have him so
to see my belly rise and fall,
and he must have me to complete his vision
of what it means to be famous.


It’s beautiful and sunny, yet I’m feeling dark today. Dredging up some older poems. These, obviously, are more difficult to post than the ones about my family. Maybe that’s why I want to get them up now. Before anyone finds out about this blog….


Daylight comes creeping over tight shut lids.
I’m still in my clothes,
I’m on the shag carpet,
I’m feeling my head ripping apart.

My mascara runs and
leaves some raccoon eyes
looking at cold rain
with sadness. There is no one around
to see the mess that’s left.
There’s no one to clean up the
sticky kitchen floor,
no one to put the stale food away.

My dreams of black coffee and
black t-shirt men give me the shakes.
I’m tasting the residue
of a lingering hangover that feeds these thoughts.

I could claw my way out,
I could forget all the mistakes,
I could remember my medicine if you would just let me be.

“What brings me down now is love,” cry the crows.
They fly over the humming wheat fields Van Gogh saw
before he died.
I have the dried paint on my fingertips and under my eyes.