No more of these in 2008!!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
High wind does not last long,
Nor does heavy rain.
If nature's words do not last
Why should those of man?
Who accepts harmony, becomes harmonious.
Who accepts loss, becomes lost.
For who accepts harmony, the Way harmonizes with him,
And who accepts loss, the Way cannot find.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Men placed dummies in beds; magazine photos over holes in walls
The Associated Press
updated 5:52 p.m. CT, Mon., Dec. 17, 2007
ELIZABETH, N.J. - Two inmates escaped from a county jail, hiding the holes they made in the walls by putting up photos of bikini-clad women, officials said.
Authorities searched over the weekend for Jose Espinosa, who was awaiting sentencing for manslaughter, and Otis Blunt, who was facing robbery and other charges. They also launched a review of jail security.
The two got out of the Union County jail Saturday evening. The county prosecutor's office said the two apparently removed cement blocks from two walls, squeezed through the openings, jumped to a rooftop below and then made it over a 25-foot-high fence. The section they escaped from was supposed to be the most secure area of the facility.
"I'm extremely disturbed that a jail with the capability of security it has would foster a breach of this nature," County Prosecutor Theodore Romankow told The Star-Ledger of Newark for Monday's editions.
Espinosa, 20, an alleged gang member, was awaiting sentencing after pleading guilty to manslaughter in a 2005 drive-by shooting in Elizabeth. Blunt, 32, was awaiting trial on charges of robbery and weapons offenses.
The men helped cover up the break by placing dummies under their bed blankets, and hiding the wall holes with magazine photos of women in bikinis, authorities said.
Authorities launched a review of security measures and barred inmates from pinning up pictures from magazines on their cell walls.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The water froze and thawed,
settled to near clarity, clean enough
to wash wounds and dilute indigo ink
to sapphire, so that when you made
your cursive tallies they cut
like winding rivers
through the first snow. I could read
your choler in their steep banks.
Felted flakes the size of demitasse
dashed against our northern windows.
Winter was weeks away and I saw
what was required of me.
The refractory oak held on
to her dead leaves even as her roots
became fists beneath the soil.
I could snap your wrist, you said,
like a twig. The world was hushed
and brittle. I placed my hand in yours.
It was marrow, in the end,
that tasted most like justice.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Well, there's that war and Darfur and well... maybe the monkeys aren't so bad. Perhaps a trade...
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
Shackleton survived some rough times. His doomed ship was named the Endurance. I have no ship, but if I did I would name her More Mountains. I'd prefer her to sink in warm waters off the windward coast of Tortola when her time came. The Endurance was crushed by ice near Antartica in November of 1915. Shackleton died at age 48 while on another polar expedition.
I've just had a rough year. Still afloat though... not iced-in or buried on Elephant Island. I remain hopeful.
Friday, November 23, 2007
The Way flows and ebbs, creating and destroying,
Implementing all the world, attending to the tiniest details,
Claiming nothing in return.
It nurtures all things,
Though it does not control them;
It has no intention,
So it seems inconsequential.
It is the substance of all things;
Though it does not control them;
It has no exception,
So it seems all-important.
The sage would not control the world;
He is in harmony with the world.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
the molehill chronicles
In my predictable way I look up
the steep incline that was harder
going down than on the sheer ascent.
Imagine the apex as just another step,
the inanity of even one quick breath
of jubilation. What I failed to fathom
has scarred my palms, taught me
that a stone-bruise heals
with unbearable leisure, insists
on the homage of a wary tread.
After the summit, in the long exhale,
silence brings a sighing coda,
infers a false relief… almost done.
What waits is the scrabble, pebbles
that offer no purchase. Crags
and scrubby growth conspire
to give no ease, but send me
plummeting like broken sod
into a ready grave. Threats
of weather are always at my back,
clouds scheming like statesmen.
And after my descent, sherpas scatter
like dulcet dreams at dawn and life
tenders the cheap embrace
of one who has found a new
and truer love. I was always the one
who hoped for foolish things,
thought I might find new softness
carried on an old wind,
a door propped open
even as the storm
caught up with me
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Today was in the 70s, but the cold is headed our way. The temperature will drop 30 degrees tomorrow morning. I'm shivering just thinking of it. Try as I might, I cannot seem to find much joy in this season.
Maybe I need a lightbox.
Or perhaps I could hibernate.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
ugh. yuck. blah.
And this season is dreadful... I'm sorry, but it is.
I am sad, but I'll get over it. I am just weary from this ass-kicking year. 2007 has been a whipping. I am counting the days until it ends and hoping so hard that the new year will have some better mojo.
Ah, but I must amend this post a bit. It is my son and his wife's first anniversary and they practically glow with happiness. So I suppose not all love is bad afterall... Their sweet tenderness for each other warms my craggy, cold heart.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
I am not entranced with topaz
and amber leaves, nor thrilled
with gusts that reek of swift decline.
You would argue it is me, proclaim
the power of my influence
as if it were season unto itself.
You urge me to translate the world
creaking on its axis as a song,
but what I hear is the lumbering of days
carving deep ruts that will not heal.
Time after time I tilt my face
to the distant sun only to tread
on prickled husks, the brittle
ruins of spent desire. Still I stoop
to prod the awful crush,
taint my palms with tomb’s dust.
Winter paces on the ridge, spreads
frosty fingers against a washrag sky,
eager, as always, to slip them under
my summer skirt. Your old sweater
is speckled with beggar’s lice,
woven with the bleached threads
of every mislaid betrayal.
No, I am not devoted to your bonfires,
your wheels of wheat, the promise
of snow that hovers near your lips.
I pull curtains shut, brace the doors,
lean hard against the smudged hours
that blow like smoke and ash
beneath the splintered threshold .
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
You come to me with the moon
in your arms, cradled like a son, proud
as if you had brought forth this miracle
from the sky with your own hands.
The hem of your mythology sweeps
my threshold. Me, I sit on a stool
by the western window, concentrate
on the savannah’s fluent, topaz dance.
I thought Africa was beyond you
that your wings would tire somewhere
over the beguiling Caribbean, but no,
you have come with stars in a rough sack,
a wild river caught in a green jar,
a rain of snowy petals in your wake.
I breathe the wildness of your journey.
There are tigers here, I tell you, hungry
things crouch in every shadow. Beauty
is a ripple beneath a pelt, the sinew
that trembles before the leap.
Oh yes, I welcome your treasures,
but for now please come empty
your hands and watch with me.
Let me show you a marvel.
This is Kenya and I have found something
true. There beneath the acacia tree
where sunlight plays on slender blades
she watches with her golden eyes.
I feel her strength, her inborn grace
as it flows in every measured step.
When you kiss me you will know
it too. Africa blooms in me, verdant.
untamed. I am the grassy plain below the lioness.
It is comforting to recall being at this stunning place. I know it is there waiting for me. I recall the long twisting pathway down to The Baths, the massive boulders, the impossible blue of the Caribbean. Christopher Columbus named this place. It's not going anywhere. Today the water is warm and calm there and it it will be the same when I return.
On this day I am island dreaming and making art...
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007 10 - 11:30 pm
Fifty million Americans work crossword puzzles each week, many
in the venerable New York Times, where Will Shortz has been
editor for 12 years. "Wordplay" presents an entertaining and
informative look at Shortz' work and that of the puzzle
constructors with whom he collaborates. This portrait features
interviews with celebrity crossword solvers, including Bill
Clinton, Bob Dole, Jon Stewart, Ken Burns, the Indigo Girls and
others. (CC, Stereo)
Monday, October 15, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Monday, October 08, 2007
Peel away this smooth silver bark, my love.
I have hidden my white flesh beneath
and there it waits unblemished.
You have plucked from me the myths
of mercy and salvation, purged my lips
of psalms and atonement. There are lilies
instead, sprung like egrets from your palms.
My prayers are sent on their wings,
parchment scrolls rolled tight and slipped
between the milky shafts of blanched feathers.
All of my pale promises are yours now,
given in the snow white hours. I want you
blinded by the silent brilliance of my body
hung before you like a new sail, empty
but for the want of wind. All of this I offer-
the gulf that shimmers between us,
morning’s reliable hunger for the sky,
every windowpane that catches the October moon.
I lift my arms, brittle as the aspen branches
found fallen after the wind. In this way you see me
as nothing except what you disdain,
a yawning chasm with walls of chalk
and thirst. I am not afraid to grow
dim in your eyes. I have lodged my radiance
in a borrowed star. You can not begin
to comprehend how much you love me.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Tomorrow Kate, Heidi and I are heading due north to KC, Mo. to visit Kate's boyfriend, Ryan. He attends Kansas City Art Institute. The best thing, besides seeing Ryan, is First Fridays. Artists in the Crossroads community keep their studios open into the evening. Approximately 60 galleries and studios make their home in the Crossroads. I can't wait to check this out! The weather should be perfect from strolling from gallery to gallery.
We'll be back late Sunday.
ROAD TRIP here I come!!!!
She assembles the shrine
on her back porch-
sugar skulls, marigolds,
a bowl of tomatoes, coffee beans,
his Fitzgerald translation of the Rubaiyat.
There is a slender stack of letters
mostly from London and the Prado
postcard book filled with Goyas and da Riberas.
Finally she lays down the calf-skin gloves
that still remember the shape of his hands,
still curve as if they long to hold her.
Winter waits now beyond the fat round moon,
whispers through leaves that haven’t fallen.
Seven autumns have come and gone-
still she waits for the promised release.
The gifts of time and forgetting
slip through her fingers once more
with every orange petal she drops,
a pathway laid from the altar
to call his spirit home,
down the steps and across the yard.
Where to stop? Where to stop?
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
And therefore none can control it.
If a ruler could control the Way
All things would follow
In harmony with his desire,
And sweet rain would fall,
Effortlessly slaking every thirst.
The Way is shaped by use,
But then the shape is lost.
Do not hold fast to shapes
But let sensation flow into the world
As a river courses down to the sea.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Lexy works on ruining the sofa...
Patches in deep denial of the fact that he is almost 15 yrs. old. He's the Hef of dogs. Sally and Lexy are his biotches.
These damn dogs... They conspire. Something is always coming out of one of them... some substance that I am required to remove. This, in no way, adds to the quality of my life. Why do I have animals in my house? They are good dogs, but not a one of them has saved a life, which to me is the hallmark of a really good dog. I mostly love them, but not entirely, not like I should. But they are sweet... my good puppies... sigh...