ok then...

Dragged out my old HP point-and-shoot for the ride to the doctor yesterday. Haven't used it for about a year. This shot sort of grabbed me and I was inspired by the glass block photos of Susan Shore to distort it in Photoshop. Kind of a fun result.

Fascination

My Dog is not Stupid

My dog is not stupid
or crazy
or retarded.

My dog is anxious.

She barks at people that
she doesn’t see
everyday.

People who smell different
each time she encounters them
are confusing.

But then,
if she knows you, she will
be sweet.

It doesn’t help to yell,
or hiss,
or call her rude names.

And it hurts my feelings.
Because I am anxious too.
I have been for thirty years.

I’ve learned not to bark.
Mostly.
But I’ve had thirty years to learn.
My dog is not yet two.

I’m sorry my dog barks at you.
But she’s my best friend.
So be nice.
Please.

What you say to her
tells me what you
don’t
say to me.

Think about it.

Dog on the Street

Catnip

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

An Artist & Photographer

Six clocks are ticking audibly.

The pendulum clock has struck

two

and one

and three

and one

and four

and one

and five.

I can hear the the falsetto honk of my cat

snoring.

* * *

I remember when he drove me up to the door.

The windshield was impressionistic with dog snot.

Eyes, hair, lips, hands.

The scent of him.

yes, yes, yes,

No.

Don’t even ask.

Not ever.

Don’t slam the car door and

lump back to my place.

I’m old enough to be his mother, almost…

Go read a book…

Go inside.

Throw the swag on the heap.

The tidy, organized heap.

Just boughten, already forgotten.

Ali Baba could live here…

Walk the dog,

feed the fish,

tend the plants,

pet the cat.

Paddle my feet in the digital stream.

“Nice contrast, and the light is so warm.”

“You’re so lucky to see with your eyes.”

“That’s so funny!”

The cats with cute captions.

The demands for responsible action.

“You can make a difference!”

* * *

The clocks are ticking.

Little Nazi insects – step, step.

Step,step.

Press slightly damp whorls and loops

Against the hollow in my throat and wrist.

My pulse is keeping step with one of

the insects.

I can feel it through my no-two-alike fingerprints.

Heartbeat.

Strong.

Steady.

The illusion of health.

The pendulum clock strikes one

and six

and one.

It’ll be light soon.

Don’t think about the dead rats.

Buried three feet from where my head lies now.

Murdered.

Buried.

Portraits fashioned of their little, broken bodies.

Prayers said for them.

Might as well get up.

Go check the traps.

If I’m lucky they will be empty.

If I’m lucky,

I will have failed.

Angry Woman

Water Bearer

Susan's Cat

Dream City