cerulean views

Blue, meaning what?
The shades infinite
textures related
being associated with pleasures
or malaise
or simply a gray day.
Clear blue skies
deep blue seas
far away, over the horizon
near, a reflection from standing water.
Comfort, like worn denim
Christmas lights,
the blue gas flame
and a glass of wine
for company, to stir the pot.

in the eye of the beholder

Answered in the party room with a dug out pit
I requested government funding
and erected the anti erection
the seven levels of Dante
my nouveau riche art museum
with a drill bit
the size of Paul Bunyan's toothpick!
We enter by a vestibule, the narthexian impasse
gotsa hab a key!
To the elevator of dreams a horror station
that only goes
down
down
down
donations are expected at the desk
don't froget yer brochure!
The first level is a big round room filled with doors
and a yellow box painted in the center, for you to step into
then from the white walls open the doors
and people
out of work people
hungry people
stream out of doors and surround you
and make wooly booly noises
then exit.
They are behind the doors.
Follow your directions, please, return to the elevator.
Level 2
The walls are mauve and the people crawl
on the Velcro walls in mauve suits...
they are maggots...
a view from the center bench is nauseating.
Room 3 is down again, it is all down
and noisy people play noisy instruments
badly.
They don't take requests
I don't think they know you exist.
The elevator will not skip levels
The only way out is to go
down
down
down.
Level four and the walls are closing in
and the air is colder
There are no sweaters.
In the distance you hear a dog barking
And in the distance another dog answers
That is all there is, that and the cold.
On level five the entire elevator empties
We all stand together
touching
rubbing
Trying to stay warm,
but the center keeps moving out to the edges
and warmth is short lived.
Legs dangle from the ceiling
shoeless wiggling toes
the living legs from above.
Reenter the elevator.
The worst art museum ever
at level 6 babies are crying
children are walking in circles
they are wearing beige and holding
the walls, never finding a way out
somewhere their mothers drink tea
and wonder what is missing
in their lives.
Now it is the general consensus
what is art,
and who decides?
A blue box,
a blue painted box
mounted in a white room
with a blue box
painted blue and mounted in a white room
Whoever does it first
can call himself an artist
She can shoot herself in the head
with a paint gun
full of prisms
all the colors from our sun.
And mount it on a wall
in a white room.
That, my friends, is art.
On level seven,
she stands
beheaded and beckoning
with 20 industrial coolers blowing air
cold
And the only way out is to traverse the room
passing the artist
it is her final request
to climb into the yellow painted box
where her prism head smiles
she gave everything for her art
and climb the spiral staircase.
Please visit our souvenir shop on the main level.

Tom & Dinosaur review The Portrait Gallery

Tom: Hi y'all...as you may know we have traveled South into our nation's capital, and Dinosaur Hand wanted to come along as well! The painting to our left is by Indiana artist...Robert Indiana.

Dinosaur Hand: Yes, I've been staying very busy holding water bottles and subway hand rails; thank you very much.

Tom: You're welcome. The water is very important, boys and girls, as the highs have been in the 90's this week. I think I got a touch dehydrated one day, which pretty much laid me up for a portion of the next day...

D.H: Gotta go, go, go!

Tom: True; there is a lot to see here. Yesterday we ended up on the Mall to see a bit of the Smithsonian,

D.H: ...and a bit is just how it sounds, 'cause that Smithsonian thingy is, like, twelve thousand buildings!

Tom: the Portrait Gallery! This is my wife's favorite place,

D.H: so she dragged us along...

Tom: Dino! She generously showed us around. Of course she knows the history and sprinkled our visit with various snippets of wisdom. The Portrait Gallery contains many portrayals of famous Americans, as well as just plain good art.

D.H: I liked the Garden Gnome room.

Tom: No such thing.

D.H: Well, the sloth room was killer!

Tom: You're thinking of the Natural History museum...we saw that a couple days ago.

D.H: Rooooar; there was Dinosaur Bones! Oh look, a sculpture of a naked lady, and my ancestors on the wall!

in one gallery of modern art, from the corner of my eye i could see a large colorfully dressed woman sitting at a table--i thought she was real. No, she was a realistic sculpture. Just down the room i saw this loudly dressed woman standing still, and of course thought she was another sculpture. Land Ho! but she moved, then took a picture! This place is full of wonder!

Tom: The Portrait Gallery is such a great place; you can see paintings of people you idolize, such as President Lincoln, or a bust of Aaron Copeland. Georgia O'Keefe is my favorite (you can see an architectural painting to the right), or view modern art that actually looks like it may have taken some thought. Or just plain makes you wonder: 'what the....'
D.H: Haha, yeah, what is that supposed to be...a duck!? Haha, did somebody step on a duck! haha.

Tom: You're laughing at your own bad jokes, Dino; again.

D.H: quack.

Tom: There are many museums in D.C, and unfortunately we're running low on time...hope we can get into the rest next time we visit.

D.H: I want to see the alligators!

Tom: Well, hopefully we will get to the zoo next time; this week it is way too hot to walk around a zoo.

D.H: Yeah, I'll bet the animals will melt!

Tom: Us too; see ya all on the flip side.

self portrait

Land of Many Shadows

...because the sun is high, and HOT!

My friend Reya says D.C. is a swamp, and my wife says it sits in a bowl;

whatever, it's a freakin' slow cooker.

Although we are sort of used to it, because

the Midwest summers are hot, humid too,

with slow, heavy air that does nothing

but lay lay lay.

Anyhooo. had a good first full day of seeing some

of the sights...figuring out the transit, etc etc.

Tami has our day planned out again,

with some tours, etc.

Anyone in N.America--stay cool!

Everywhere else, dress appropriately...

the last post was a bit long,

so I'll follow up with just a doodle,

and this link to a favorite place

the inspirational poem behind the ink.

i'll be away for a bit,

but hopefully can stay in contact...

enjoy the heat; it's summer!

you might find a clue to

my adventures

here...

Camera tricks, Coffee and Merlot

this is a dual entry, for i'm running out of time,
for Theme Thursday,
and Tenth Daughter of Memory...
hope it's not too long!

Jerome the wild kneed photog, naturalist in disguise,
stowed a bag of crackers and taco chips into his back pack,
along with the bare camp essentials and a can of coffee.
He disappeared into the woods just outside his cabin door.
The path was clear and free of stone or root for at least the first mile,
and indeed it was a pretty easy hike from his door step to the closest town,
some five miles distant. But at the ancient three-trunk maple he veered
into the trees; there was no discernible path.
Jerome scrambled through the heavy branches and brush
for some time, until he stumbled onto a sparse game trail,
and once there he pulled a freshly sharpened machete from
the sheath at his waist and began hacking at the growth.
He had been working on this trail for several months,
and it led to a secret place, a place of wonder and mystery.
Jerome had very little in the way of supplies, partly because
he liked to travel light, and partly because he had stowed some
supplies at his camp sight during the last visit. But mostly because
his secret place was a paradise, and everything he really needed
to live was already there. Water, food, and shelter.
The company wasn't all that shabby, either.
After a good stretch of the legs, Jerome stopped
straightened his back, reaching his lanky arms into the air.
His fingertips grazed a gnarly locust tree and caught a thorn.
He winced, but any walk into the woods entailed hives,
bug bites and scratches. He unslung the canteen and took a swig,
wiped his mouth dry.
From here on to the little pond where he would stop to camp
the path was wider and more traveled, so he sheathed
the machete. Looking down he saw a fresh sets of foot prints.
They were wider than his boot print, and longer.
They were the bare foot prints of a primate walking upright
and sunk deep into the dirt path—most likely
made when the ground was muddy. It was bone dry now, and the air
of the woods felt light and pleasant as it moved around in the leaves and
down to his body. Despite the large prints, he was lighthearted and whistled.
Finally Jerome broke into a clearing. The first time he stumbled
into this opening he shouted out in surprise, the sight was that unexpected.
Now he stood at the entrance with hands on hips and leaned back
to take in the glory of the little wooded oasis.
The whole of it may have been a half acre. A little thatched cabin
would have fit perfectly at one end, with plenty of garden space left over.
Into the clearing ran a perfect bubbling stream, meandering and
chock full of every variety and color of river rock and stone ledges.
The brook emptied into a little pond, bigger than a backyard pool,
but smaller than an Olympic venue. Jerome walked up to pool and
sat at the edge, stripping off his boots and socks, and plunging
his burning feet into the water. 'Ahhhh,' he moaned, and fell to his back.
After the short reprieve, Jerome unencumbered himself of his accoutrements,
taking a digital camera from a pocket of his shorts.
'Who's here today?' he called out, and started snapping pics. He stood
in one place and rotated, catching the clearing from every angle. When he
came back around to the start, Jerome lowered the camera and checked his
photos. Immediately he got an answer. Standing at the opposite end of the
clearing by a jack pine was a prehistoric sloth and his son...they were
munching on berry laden branches and eying him. On a stump to his right sat a hairy
biped smoking a pipe and twiddling its dirty toes. “Hiya, J” he seemed to
mouth from the corner of his whiskered lips. Jerome knew this big fella
as Sam, and was unafraid.
The pictures of the pond were of the most interest to Jerome,
and he scanned them twice over, then retook them. No sign of life there.
The last time Jerome came to the clearing he only caught a glimmer
of the pond's resident, no more. But that slight glimpse was enough to captivate him.
He would come back every weekend for the rest of his life to see more;
it couldn't be helped. Every spare moment away he only had room
in his head for thoughts of this Eden and the heavenly soul that
lived in its pond. He sat again and dangled his toes in the cool water.
Later that afternoon Jerome pulled a bottle of wine from the pond.
He had a rope tied around the neck, and the wine was sunk deep enough to
keep it perfectly chilled. With his pocket knife his pried loose the
cork and took a sip, then a longer draught. Jerome stood and
wandered over to the tree stump, where he sat the bottle down
on a flat stone and backed away. The bottle of Merlot rose into the
air and tipped; half the contents drained away, and the bottle hovered
to Jerome's hand. He wiped the lip on his sleeve and took another sip.
He raised the bottle to the forest edge and waggled it, but the answer
from the sloth was a garbled, 'na thanks' and Jerome handed it back
toward the tree stump.
Nothing. Interesting, the wine was never refused before.
Jerome took a quick picture of the stump and checked the file.
A perfect picture of a Sasquatch was shaking his head 'no' and pointing
to the pond. Jerome whirled.
Peeking from the stoic fluids was a blond goddess, she rose
and hovered at the surface, balancing on the crest of a wave, a beautiful
princess mermaid, all woman above and glimmering fish below.
She beckoned to Jerome, and he waded into the pond, holding
the bottle above the choppy waves.
Somehow he didn't sink to the bottom, but went to her, seeing her without
aid from the camera, while the last rays of the sun caught the tree tops
and began to flicker as they caught in the branches and leaves.
'Give me a drink, Jerome,' she said, and she sipped a little of the Merlot.
'I saw you; I came back,' he said and she smiled.
'I will always be here at the clearing's sunset, for a few minutes; is that
enough for you?'
Of course, thought Jerome, and the mermaid faded into the dusk. He still felt
her though, as her soft fingers trailed down his waist and his leg down to his foot.
Then she was gone. Along with the bottle of wine.
Jerome floundered out of the pond, dripping to the bank.
He unloaded some camp gear, including a sleeping bag and some campfire
pots and pans, and the can of coffee. Tonight he'd have crackers and
water, but tomorrow Jerome would up early, with the raucous birds.
He'd brew a strong pot of coffee and be off, back to his cabin
for another bottle of red Merlot; after all, the weekend was just half over,
and another sundown was to be had.
Jerome took a picture of the night, and said goodnight to his friends,
leaving the crackers out for whoever wanted them.
Tomorrow night he would return, and hopefully he would share
his wine, and have a sweet sunset kiss.

only saps are happy

i am feeling strangely antisocial the last few days--
something to do with the stress of work,
a lack of sleep, and malaise.
I am antsy and feel the need to keep busy,
but lack the desire to do anything--
all is higgletty piggletty...
I've been reading all the blogs on my
sidebar, but don't much feel like commenting,
sorry...
but i am enjoying your posts.
There is packing to do
and housework
and yardwork
and paperwork
and some of it cannot wait for a week.
The anticipation of vacation
and seeing my wife may be affecting me
adversly...
who can say?
Anyway, here is a strange doodle
and a stranger poetic offering:

Only saps are happy

In the far reaches I've learned to look for aliens
they hook and crook in nooks and crannies
and while I crane, gathering cricks in my neck
yes I save them for a rainy day when they emerge
cranky and abusive,
the little rascals twirl plastic mustaches
rescued from a dust bin
and screech in mechanized clicks and whirs
for no other reason than to be annoyed
and argumentative, for it seems
everywhere in the universe
or in our minds
subversion and reckless crotchetry
are monocles into general beingness;
he who said living in a vacuum sucks
must have known living in a quandary blows.

flux biota stuff

this is a collaboration doodle with my new blog friend,

Jane, at flux biota, whatever that is!!!!

She lives in Iowa...wherever that is!!!!?

and is very talented...check out her paintings

...and doodles. toodles.

sir, step away from the Candy

Candy, my ass. She was sweet as a cherry Lifesaver, but dumb as the center of a Tootsie Pop. Ker-runch! I met Candy when I was 6 and lost touch for awhile, through jr. high and high school. But I never forgot her simple ways. We held hands under the gum tree and shook the dry seed from monkey balls, then strung the spiky seedpods into necklace loops that nobody in their right minds would ever want to wear. When she wasn't sucking on a sourball, she was smacking on bubble gum and blowing humongous pink bubbles. I always wanted to scribble words on them, I imagined thought balloons. Phrases like, did someone step on a duck? or wadda ya want for nothin', a rubber biscuit? No, I didn't know what any of it meant, but I heard the older kids saying that kind of stuff all the time. When I mentioned my thoughts to Candy she would tilt her head and say, 'like, really. Wow'. But I never saw her lips moving, just a bobbing bubble.

So I missed those middle years, the ones where little girls grow into young women. I wasn't prepared for the shock of seeing my Candy, dear little freckle friend, leaning over a library shelf perusing a home interiors catalog with her chin resting on two bent wrists. She was wearing a pink t and some kind of skirt that now hiked well over her lower thigh. At first I didn't recognize her, I just double taked at the spectacle. Then her eyes turned to mine and a pink bubble grew to gradually cover the middle of her face. That's what I remembered, the edges of her face hadn't changed at all. Her hairline, and eyes. Those eyes, now painted with long lashes and sculpted brows. Wow, those eyes. She said, 'like, what's up, stranger?'

Candy took me back to her apartment, and we caught up. She had been through a dozen men, all older, all wealthy types who supplied her with paying jobs and fancy things. The big studio was filled with cardboard boxes now—no one was paying the rent, and this place was too high end for her now meager salary. Not only that, her candy red convertible was towed away last week, repoed for a similar reason. Ha ha, she was between boyfriends at the moment, times were tough. Guys were finding it hard to keep both a wife and a little plaything happy while their stash of gold coins dwindled. Priorities, like, you know?

We talked all night, drank her last bottle of Merlot, and finally fell into bed together. I'd never been with a girl like Candy before. Her lips tasted like wine, probably did even when she wasn't tipsy, and her body was soft and flexible. We bounced in the sheets until the bed seemed too small, then plummeted off onto the pillow covered floor shaking the apartment and rolling into stacked boxes that tipped and spilled their wares. Hot. Man, that's gonna leave a mark, that's a scar I can talk about.

She made coffee, and sat cross legged on the oversized couch sipping naked from the thick mug. Candy tilted her head and peered over the rim, I lost the middle of her face. Just like old times. And that's when I saw the thought bubbles. She was still dumb, but she wasn't naive; that was me. However, I could see her wheels turning.

The coffee wasn't strong enough to keep her awake for long, or me, but I toughed it out sans the toothpicks to prop open my eyelids. I couldn't afford to stay, or I'd be lost—shipwrecked, and who needs that kind of pain? Candy is for kids, and at some point in life a guy needs to lose his sweet tooth and move on, before the cavities move in and create sinkholes the size of city blocks in his heart. She looked sweet, lying there under a couple of fluff pillows, her eyes scrunched up. Those eyes were all I could see, and the thought bubbles were full of candy corn and pink unicorns. I preferred to remember her that way, closing the door softly, making my escape. Oh, and I enjoy a sweet piece of candy as much as anyone; the key is in moderation....

the most normal thing about me is my dog

jotted these musings down as i watched the movie 'i'm not there'...

I'm not here, ain't an astronaut
never fit into my own skin, really
an alien just visiting, it's a
wonderment, sure, to be living
livin' the dream, eh; whazzat?
Anyway. Got the dimes, paying
the man, up to my ears such as
they is, and that's fitting in
really, ain't it? It don't matter
if you're black or white or an
effin astronaut. You go be a
card carryin' donut fer krisakes.
If ya got a number
if ya into over your head and
swimming in a red sea
then you belong. It's either you're
in the pool, or you in the chair
with a whistle. Shit, I came down
from the outerspace,
didn't I? That's
some news, they never
saw nothing like me
and that's how I was
noticed—never wanted
to be seen. Would've
been like you; admit it,
you thought—no you didn't,
did ya?
You just knew I was
a freak 'cause I wasn't like
you. Or your cronies—
just an astronaut, damn.
Hell I bought into it, the
junk, like anybody. What,
an alien doesn't have to
breath, or eat the dirt?
I gotta go point A point B,
and you sell it, you'll sell
to anything, you'll pack it up
with tin foil and a sticker
shit and sell to any ole kid
or some mad bug eye, won't
ya, then you can buy it, get
your foot up the rung, eh--
well, welcome to the club,
now I is like you—but I
still don't feel it,
and never will.
Tainted and
damaged,
just an astronaut.

white stuff in D.C.

Today my wife is flying off to experience many things white in our nation's capital,
Washington D.C., where she will live the life of a native for a few weeks.
She says she will miss me, and the kids, but I know she will miss our little dog,
Toby, the most. Maybe she can rent a doggie that will forever be jumping up on
her lap and ogling her dinner.
She will be walking and touring the monuments, among other things, and taking
pictures and keeping her memoirs on her new blog.
I'll be following along to see what's she's up to day by day, and in three or four weeks
I'll make the long drive over to say hello. She'll have a list of things for us to do and see, including
seeing the White House, and the Washington monument, and Monticello, etc etc etc.
We'll see all the white monuments and some white grave markers and whitewashed
picket fences around little white bungalows. Historical, informative, and fun.
If you're interested, check it out occasionally...I'm sure there will be more to read and see than white; maybe even green or pink!