I wish I could write like Pollock paints, grabbing fistfuls of language out of the dictionary, squeezing emotion out of the alphabet, drizzling pronunciation onto the page.

Sheets of lined paper would litter the floor while I tarantella’d around them, pouring out liquid words, heedless of connection to any idea.

Balancing precariously on the head of the moment, I would teeter back and forth between past and future.

How envious I am of Pollock’s ability to stand so firmly on the microscopic present as if  it were a steel-girdered bridge instead of a freckle.

Maybe I could even randomly include words like “nail” and “cigarette” into the piece.

I wish I could write like Pollock paints, dancing out language and composing with my body, entering into my work and becoming its partner.

I would love to shout “Opa!” at the top of my lungs!

Copyright 2009

If life is a party, then my friends are confetti, champagne, and balloons.

I, however, am the brown paper bag all glued up and pasted with tissue, glitter, and sequins.

No one would even guess that it was really me inside.

But if I take just the right hit, I will burst with sweet surprise and scatter bits of prose all over the floor.

It is the nature of a pinata to self-destruct for pleasure.

That is why you always see one at a really good party.

Just be careful with the stick.

It could be me inside.

Copyright 2009

The devil went to the dentist last Thursday.

The receptionist there hates him.  She doodles horns and a pointy tail around his 10:30 appointment.

The devil knows this and brings her a box of chocolates.

She’s a diabetic.

“The doctor will see you now.”  She stares into his maddening poker eyes like Joan of Arc into the flames.

The devil blows her a redhot kiss as he waltzes in.

She hates him with a passion.

“What seems to be the problem today?”  The dentist enjoys the power of God right now.

Evil lays prone before him wearing a cheap paper bib.

The mouth of hell is wide open.

“My molars hurt when I grind and gnash them.”  Tears almost well up in Satan’s reptilian eyes, but steam leaks out instead.  “Can you help me?”

“You’ll have to see a specialist.”  (Oh, the omnipotent power).

“I can give you a referral.”  (Oh, the benevolent blessing).

“You know, I never see this sort of thing in the saints or martyrs.”  (Oh, the irony).

The devil left the dentist last Thursday.

The receptionist there smiled.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Satan, sir, but your insurance doesn’t cover this.”

Copyrigh 2009

I grab my lawn chair and ridiculous dog and head down to the river to watch the fireworks.

The detonation of explosives into bursts of color attracts me like some stellar lodestone.

It’s a huge nocturnal art opening with the abstracts of the avant-garde blown into pieces.

I am riveted.

Maybe it’s the crowd.  No way it’s the shattering noise.  For sure it’s the sight of the toto dog leaping up to catch an incendiary orb.

Maybe it’s even the fact that a fireworks display outdoes its potential and pushes the envelope on kinetic, especially at the end when it lurches into staccato Picasso.

Although it remains constant, the image of an iridescent sphere shattering into hues that rain down over the crowd only to evaporate elates me.

I wish my writing could burst with such amazing images and then disappear into the reader’s mind.

Instead I just seem to ignite the occasional volatile verb, watch it flare into the void, and then pronounce it a dud.

I am a Fourth of July poet stuck in November.

Maybe one day the toto dog and I will at least catch the singed tail of a comet between our teeth.

Copyright 2009

The world of puppets is metaphorically centered in Calcutta.

There is a definite caste system in play.

Marionettes are at the top of the heap.  They are the brahmins, the aristocrats, the privileged, the elite.  Even though their strings are constantly being pulled, they are the chosen ones – they of the hinged mouths, intact bodies, and somewhat normal speaking voices.  They inhabit exotic sets, wear elegant costumes, and rest in padded boxes safe from unwanted attention and wood rot.

Marionettes are performing sacred cows.  Even the name conjures up a privileged puppet lineage, replete with guilded craftsmanship and drama masters.

Not so with the lowest of lows, the sock puppets, those unspeakable, unclean untouchables constantly being rammed onto the hands of the unwashed masses.  Immersion in the holiest of waters would only serve to magnify their defilement.

Beware the sock puppets with their inbred button eyes and absent lower trunks.  Avoid the strident sounds of their insane conversations, if such a thing is even possible.

Sock puppets have no sense of decorum or refinement.

They do not believe in proper social introduction.  They simply appear suddenly out of the subterranean depths, often startling those unaware of their presence.

They glory in the fact that they agitate Calcutta with their sheer numbers.

Yet their limited synthetic reasoning cannot sense how easy it would be to topple the inverted pyramid of puppet society. 

Poor things.

Perhaps one day a tube-sock Gandhi will emerge to pull his sock people up from the miserable mire.

But until that time actually arrives, if it ever truly does come, continue to rinse the reviled and defiled sock puppet untouchables in the gentle cycle of The Ganges.

Copyright 2009

It has been raining three days now, with fish on the front porch.

God is in a depression.  Just look at the weather.

He is drinking pot upon pot of black coffee while pulling dark clouds over his head.

He is questioning his own existence and omnipotence at the same time…not a very feasible idea when you are the creator.

No good will come of it.  Just look at the weather.  It is causing pensive thought.

God ponders his rationale for the design of the platypus and wonders why he didn’t consider an antidote for humanity.

He longs for a vacation that he’s never had and will never experience.

He can’t.

He is the “go to guy,” the righteous CEO with an on-call prayer on his hip.

Another pot of black coffee will not jolt a silver lining into the depressed dark cloud of God’s ennui.  Just look at the weather.

If only the creator had parents he could visit, or a best friend to buy him a beer, or a therapist to listen to his rants.

Instead, he is his own father and son.

The Holy Spirit, while somewhat of an aquaintance, now speaks in tongues.

And everyone, yes everyone, seems to sit in judgment of him.

No wonder he is depressed.  Just look at the weather.  Raining for three days.

Somewhere on earth the platypus starts to sing.  It adores wicked weather and warbling in the showers.

But it is an eerie, primitive tune – one only appreciated by monotreme aficionados.  Humans have no ear for the chaotic jazz of the egg-laying mammal.

They have confiscated its cabarets and gagged all its gigs.  But the platypus is always an artist.

Suddenly God sits upright on the couch.

Somewhere on earth the platypus’ soul has entered its song.

A small smile sneaks across the radiant countenance of the supreme deity.  He designed the platypus out of recycled ideas.

The poor thing was an afterthought, an experiment of leftover parts, a spontaneous miracle of creativity.

But it is perfect, gorgeous, and happy.  And it sings, even in the downpour.  Even after three days.

God is off the couch now and running errands.

His “to do” list is infinite and awe-inspiring.  It virtually yells out:  “Go ahead.  Bring it on.”

The rain ceases.

The nimbus clouds remove their dark overcoats to reveal cumulus underclothes.

God smiles.  His depression has lifted.

Creation is bathed once again in the creator’s unconditional love.  Just look at the weather.

I’m going to trash my umbrella and sing like the platypus.

Copyright 2009