Category: Uncategorized

I look at him now, standing there—
this twelve-inch figure of wood,
a statue of stillness, simple and personal,
a witness to my quiet studio since the 1980s.

How many hands have shaped you, posed you,
in studios far from mine?
Did you stand in a Renaissance workshop,
where masters sketched the human form in conte crayon?

Or in Parisian garrets, guiding young eyes
to see chiaroscuro light fall on flesh and shadow?
You’ve seen centuries of art unfold:
the brushstrokes of oil on primed canvas,
the bold abstractions of modernity.

Each creator left their touch,
a memory etched deep in your grain.
There is something in your stillness,
a reflection of time itself—
not just the decades I’ve known you,
but all the time before,
in other studios, under other lamps,
among other dreamers.

You are more than a tool,
more than a mannequin.
A model for countless studies,
a silent muse for my artist’s hand.

Now you stand by my work,
beside the carved “B” from a block printer’s hand,
amid brushes, pencils, and bottles of India ink.
Sometimes, when I turn away,
you shift—ever so slightly—
a hand raised, a leg poised mid-step,
as if you, too, have a life
beyond my easel.

What stories does your polished wood carry?
What secrets lie within your joints?
I wonder if you remember them,
or if they’ve faded
like my old charcoal sketches—
shadows of what once was.

In this small studio,
you are history, you are memory.
And I never asked your name—why?
My silent companion,
will you see it all again,
long after I’ve put down
my artist’s pen?

I call upon thee
To take away my sickness
Rip away my sins
And to save my soul
My greatest punishment for sin lays beside me
Her light appearing like a fiery depth I want no part of
Is Heaven an eternal greatness if it commands pain?
Will heaven satisfy if my sickness is incurable?
Or is my actions the only determining factor of my soul?
My thoughts are not any purer
My eternal damnation is no love to worship
And no God to serve
Please see the white light that I yearn for
A purity and innocence I no longer possess
My indisposition can hide in the shadows
And please do not place shame the one my heart yearns for my disease is not
contagious
Only disgustingly intolerable and built up on subterfuge
Then once I lay to rest
Brought down by earth’s conditions instead of the disease I learnt to live with
I may worship the only God my faith recognizes

Fear not,
for you are your brother and sister’s keeper
Fear not,
for your brother and sisters-keep you
Fear not,
your destiny, for you and yourself already
decided which path you will walk?
Fear not,
the loss of loved ones for death itself may
not be – predetermined, but it is determined.
Fear not,
those with convincing words, smooth knees
and soft hands. Their work will speaks for
itself.
Fear not,
An agent provocateur can only provoke
those who thrive on provocation

Fear is not a barren emotion. When
neglected it bears the fruit of inaction. When
pruned with protective, persistent hands the
fruit it bares, action in the absence of fear.
Fear Not

back of a Laundromat, my Wash is in
the Dryer, in my hoody sweats and
Converse sitting on a folding
chair, at a folding table
anticipating folding
clothes
which I enjoy
as a Virgo
on my Laptop Typing Up
a Paper when Attention Drifts
as Radio starts playing Taylor Swift
I Mouth the Words thinking of Him and
Grin because I know I’m a Basic White Gurl

At first glance
–the ripples of the water–
the night has ensued,
Hell is empty, and all the demons have entered–

Scene l.

Possession.

The shades of scarves depict scarlet red,
Gorged from the inside out…
he craves the sound of dancing
and the sight of song,

Ecstatic in her subconscious reverie
infecting the mariachi with her despairing contortion,
Fingers warped in an eternal battle of elongation,
She finds the expression unexpressed until death,

…or so says the audience.

The ekphrastic strums of pair-like instruments vibrate through the night,
Translike for the player… and the played,
Two tunes synchronizing for the muse,
Set on a pedestal for her self-deprecation,
Captive of her own infective body,

Nothing more than an open sore to be intruded upon.

Half the canvas enthralled with the black dahlia,
The other susceptible to their own gloomy dreams,
Midnight strikes,
The room illuminated by the encompassing shadow,
Vibrating heart-strings connecting the mortal souls,

Luminescent skin pale as moonlight,
Levitating two inches on stilted flats,
Fabric inimical to the stage scene; set,
Vibrant hues clashing to wanting shades,
The gateways to her soul empty voids,

Scene ll.

Controversy.

The belief of not me spurs her on,
Possessive of her sprouting power
only ink smeared smudgedly on a piece of paper,
All entranced…
But that of the round, sunlit jewel

Solitary in its lonesome,
Similar to the empty vessel,
Absent of any hellish denizen,
For once, in her awkward embrace,
Abstinence was not obeyed.

Never meant for an interrogation
but you cause constant irritation
When did our relationship get so defective?
Wearing the hat of a detective

Feels like solving a crime,
trying to get you to talk
playing sleuth,
looking for the truth

Can’t believe I that mistook,
all the times you played defense
you were weaving a narrative for me

Putting down the book,
forgetting the initial hook
not all mysteries end seamlessly

All because of you,
I became Nancy Drew

“It’s called a friendship bracelet.”
She passed me a ring of colorful string
Pieced together by tiny knots and ties
Not perfect, but I loved how much she tried
From that moment on
It was on my wrist
So our friendship would never die

As time went on
The string began to fray
Little pieces of the bracelet
Started going away

She was leaving town
To hang out with some guy
When she came back
She would call off plans
“I can’t tonight, goodbye.”

The colorful string around her wrist
Slowly turned to grey
As the friendship that we had
Painfully faded away

April blinked—
and something peeled off me.
I wanted sun,
not you.

We fucked like
we could undo winter.
But spring still rotted
in the corners.

You called it love.
I called it
what I could get.

Now it’s summer again,
and I’m still
peeling myself
off memories.

Still burning
for something
that never
wanted to stay.

Did you know I think of you every day?
We’ve never met, but I’m certain we will.
Sometimes, I wonder when.
Sometimes, I wonder how.

I know people who hate you for what you’ve done
for what you’ve taken.
I’ve watched them crumble after you passed through

I know people who fear you, and others who quietly let you in.
You’ve taken those I knew,
those I love

Did you love them too when they rolled into your arms?
Where do they go when you call them?
Do they walk with you in silence?
Do they cry out, or do they already understand?

Are your fingertips gentle
when you tap their shoulder?

Or is your touch cold and final?

What is it like, keeping up this job?
Do you ever wish you could stop?
Would you rest if you could?
Do you have jealousy that we meet you once

But see life every day

Do you find peace in what you do?
Comfort in your mystery?
Power in your strength?

Are your arms always open wide?
How do you feel when we fight you?

When we push you away, only expecting to meet you again?

I fear the day I’ll have to see you come around
I hate you for what you’ve taken, and still, I’m forced to wait for you.

Impossible.

And yet, quite real.

No power, no barrier relevant
when eyes lock
and deep waters move

with landscapes ever-changing,
fortunes good and none.
The candle never to fall

or flicker.

Impossible.

And yet, rooms with light
and music.

Smell of books,
and rain.

Coffee at riverside.
Wool bundle
and cloudless noon.

Impossible.

And yet, vaults and lakes
aglow.

Drunk in the dimensional mountain air,
with a fireplace to laugh,
to cry.

Worlds ripped from anchors
and set to sail
on perfect wind.

Impossible.

And yet, not.

And yet,

not.