Musings and Mirth

About Me

I spend way too much thinking about me. This is the blank space where that paragraph should be.



Rolling out of bed at 12noon
Noisy beach town long since awake
Cries of children let loose on the playground for lunch,
A few moments I linger
Giving pleasure comes easily to you
I am hot and dry as the California coastline,
wrapping its arms around the swollen Pacific
holding it there,
keeping it from spilling over
Lips taste of cinnamon coffee,
as if from Florence,
dizzy with the pleasures of a morning
our fluids washing off our bodies
a shared shower.
It would be routine, maybe,
but who gets used to this?
It is a stolen glimpse
As life-changing and beautiful as a wide-winged pelican
gliding by, then diving under.
Before the end, come here.


I’m in a dream
Longing my 18 year old self only
The world outside visits
my half-dreams
but I never really sleep
next to you.
I wait for the hour when your body stirs
Bodies pressed puzzle pieces
Hearts beating
swelling, yearning, arching
I see things that haven’t happened yet
I see the printed outline
of your olive shirt
hugging your torso
Envious Greeks.

Banksy Makes Fun of Everyone, Gets Rich While Doing So

If a famous artist, whose work is worth millions, showed up on a streetcorner unannounced, selling his work for $60 bucks couldn’t make more than a few sales what does that say about the commerce of art? What does that say about Banksy’s work? Does it mean it wasn’t good enough to sell or does it mean people would buy it if they thought it was authentic (valuable)? Banksy selling art like that, under a cloak of relative anonymity was in itself a work of art. He’s making fun of everyone who ever wanted to buy his pieces because they were worth a lot of money. And he’s taunting people who would like to own something of value, more importantly, to get that value for such a lost cost of $60. Sorry, palies, not this time. We all got to read about it the day after the sale ended. He certainly made his point. There is probably no chance that it could ever happen the same way again. Now that we’re onto the game you can bet those works would be snatched up within seconds now.

But it was not an act of kindness. It was a hostile act, meant to expose the worst traits in people. Or maybe it’s simply ironic. Why does it feel like such a slap in the face, though? Is it shame on us? Sure, someone could flip it and say no one cares about Banksy’s work, really, they only care about how much his work is worth. If they cared about the work wouldn’t they have bought those paintings even if they thought they were knock-offs? Wouldn’t you hang one in plain view to look at every day? Of course you wouldn’t. You want the original. Because it’s worth money.

A Frame

sashaneworleansBourbon Street clanged
like a Christmas tree on a train
He never blinked.
I’m going to build you an A-Frame, he said
I built an instant dream on
a stranger’s tweaker stare
wider than the sky
He’d taken enough of something
to wish away convention
I swam in it too.
Marry me tonight, he said.
I’m going to build you an A-Frame
We’ll have lots of babies
in Oklahoma
Be my wife.
His wife, for a few hours
In a cloud of meth, rum and coke, insomnia
Did he mean it?
Let’s get drunk on promises
As I laid him down on sweat-soaked asphalt
hundreds of years of delirium
A city that slouches with lust and magic
Widened eyes that didn’t close
Don’t ever leave me
Somewhere the smell of sweet fried dough
called the morning
Drink me. Cover me.
I can build you an A-Frame
Be my wife?
A cowboy’s girl
Never let me go, he said
Sparkling beads floating
on the Mississippi
until consumed by its timeless churn

Saying too Much, too Soon


The surrender
and the beauty
comes all at once
Hot gusts of air smother the Pacific.
Rhythmic motion,
an historical shrug.
You are silent infinity.
With nothing to say back.
You don’t lift your hands even
to catch my words
They fly over and through
then fall where they dry up
exposed seeds wait for the next season
They will grow again
Flowers will spring forth, opening
Sprayed with sunshine, they reach.
I say them anyway,
remembering the quiet of that morning last,
What could have been more splendid
than your hips buckled to mine
your sweet breath tickling my ear.
How could I not use my words
Even if they are my own echo I hear
And not the sound of completeness.
There is one side of this,
Fed by the sweet sugar
Of the man who says nothing.