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The Sign of the Star as an Act of War

It was a ceremony of difference, a whispering campaign: Presidential candidate Roland Child, the Fool in Yellow, posted an arcane, anti-Semitic image yesterday morning, causing a terrible backlash and further confirming that his petty cabinet is made from insane, chained puppets, well beyond the usual boundaries of politics, and they all fled for the factories of fear, those ungainly misfits.

The image featured a picture of his rival, Mallory Castor, the Mistress of the Crows, dressed as a magician with a six-pointed star next to her face. She was offering up chaos and mud. He claimed she happened to betray him, and the star turned mainly from yellow to red. (Continued)

Pride

feel the beat of my heart
feel the pulse in my veins
i have nothing in me but love

i have nothing in me but love
while you venerate
fire & guns
muscle & hate

i can’t give you my blood
but you can spill mine
i have nothing to give but love
my love is my strength
stronger than steel
stronger than greed
stronger than muscle & hate

i have nothing to give but love
spilling from the beat of my heart
spilling from the pulse of my veins

Stuff

i only know as much as i can stuff in my head
a monstrous accumulation of trash & treasure
the ghosts in my closet & the beast beneath my bed
a stone’s throw away from a world with measure

a monstrous accumulation of trash & treasure
we only exist when fed by the storms
a stone’s throw away from a world with measure
an infinite world not yet eaten by worms

we only exist when fed by the storms
this world with a mighty tempest on the edge
an infinite world not yet eaten by worms
our demons lurking just outside on the ledge

this world with a mighty tempest on the edge
the ghosts in my closet & the beast beneath my bed
our demons lurking just outside on the ledge
i only know as much as i can stuff in my head

Timbus

what do you get when you crash
your car into a wall
of broken radios?

you go back to berlin
you mistake time for
tricycles racing through the house

air raid sirens of anxiety crush
hearts in a grip of serpents!
all vinegar in the veins

so you go back to brasília
looking forward to
anger & spite & cayenne crosswires

mistaking time for
a crashing of glass cars through
monumental cold

& you go back to berkeley
but you can never go back
never go back to the blood of lost teeth

If on a Summer’s Day…

I walk into a bookstore, looking for a cheap paperback. A pale woman with bright-blue eyes looks up and gives me a smile. Her hair is dyed purple and green; her clothes are all black. My heart swoons, though I haven’t even known her for a short while. But when that pale woman with bright-blue eyes looks up and gives me a smile, I forget all about the book I came in to find. My head swims, though I haven’t even known her for a short while. These are the times my heart overpowers my mind.

I dazedly forget all about the book I came in to find. Was it an epic fantasy or a dark murder mystery? These are the times my heart overpowers my mind. This is why I have such a messy love history. I just can’t remember if I was looking for an epic fantasy or a dark murder mystery when I originally walked into this bookstore, looking for a cheap paperback. This is why I have such an awkward love history. I’m a fool for women with dyed hair, dressed all in black.

Reality Bites

As far back as I can recall, I’ve wanted to be an artist when I grew up. It often shifted between wanting to be a novelist, an animator, a comic book artist/writer, and an obscure poet, but I knew I wanted to be a professional creative.

I’m almost halfway through my 47th year and I am not, nor have I ever been, a professional creative, although I have been writing poetry and prose and blog posts continuously for over 30 years. Even though it’s painful for me, I want to talk about why I’ve struggled with creating the art I want to create and why I haven’t tried to go pro. (Continued)