Enter into life maimed.

Enter into life maimed.
This is a hostile environment for artists.
They want grind, production, grueling rules. You must present a deliverable.

I’m not much in contention because systems need to operate.
Yet I see how we all inadvertently influence each other.
We market the production.
We produce the market.

And where does the artist rest?

We are feeble, selfless, misplaced.

We are outcasts  *  orators

hurt with oil *  watercolor  *  acrylic.

We categorized it under

          “Arts & Entertainment”

           “ ***  & Recreation”

                    meaning, “secondary…..later, later, and after.”

But we are threads in this fabric, too!

Raw and unwoven, offensively textured

Unapologetically truthful

We come in yellow silk, yarn neon green

And gray from the bass of a humming cello.

Artist need not fight for their place in society.

We already  / merely  reflect it.

I Am Your Wife

A wife reflects on the history and evolution of her tender relationship with her husband.


mm-hmm.
i am your wife.

i am sweet smile at the party when we met.
i am exchanging phone numbers in the crowd.
i am listening to first message when you called the day after.

i am idle chatter before asking me to meet you.
i am timed giggles and clever comebacks on the phone.
i am counting down to lunch date – in ten minutes.

i am bold conversation over Chinese take-out.
i am reassurance that i’m single.
i am compassionate listener, noticing you’re not eating.

i am tentative to tell you truths you’re not ready for.
i am sobbing with ache in your car.
i am stuttered expressions of love.

i am fire with resentment.
i am not answering your calls.
i am exasperation to pursue this.

i am phone calls for $20.
i am revelation of your situations.
i am help without questions.

i am ensuring your appetite.
i am focus on keeping you comfortable.
i am rearranging my days to be with you.

i am observing your progress.
i am happy for accomplishments.
i am stepping aside to let you step up.

i am nervous about two carats.
i am ten cities apart from you.
i am holding down our fort.

i am war with illness.
i am stubborn to be defeated.
i am hoping you keep your doubts to yourself.

i am late night waiting.
i am three-day breaks, understanding.
i am groundless, sporadic debate.
and in all time, i am
wanting
working
molding
praying
submitting
and knowing
that now my smile is sweet because
i am your wife.

Your smears and sketches

I didn’t know that I could see in

Your sketches: torrential rain and fusion upbringing

Through paint strokes and finger-smudged corners

The clarity from adoption

Puckered through the wholeness of a mural.

It was new to me that I could sense

The rage and indulgence from your

Sobering peek at motherhood.

And here is your art.

Amongst pencils, canvases, spray cans and a foolish yet purposeful

Douse of glitter.

I am so proud of you, Sister.

This beautiful piece you have drawn.