in the tradition of man
through snow we walked
and through it we wept

however, the woods were kind then
and from the trees we would strip flames
and bring them to life from the ground

side by side
in the tradition of men
we slept

we slept through their approach
and through their attack


on horses they rode
splashing paint with spinning arms
and allowing for another mans place
to be made in history

the ink of battles
the electric blue glow of molecules
in oscillatory motion
spinning through your arms
like locust stars

his thorax, plastic face
pubic clown hair

drag your ivy across my limbs, dear
moving through the evening dark together
passing sweet, humming moving wells

skeleton mask
and graveyard teeth
spitting magma

oh, medusa
let your hair down and join us for dinner
bones and dry ice
marinated in octopus ink

oh, medusa
habitually late for parties
an earring pressed against a single lobe
frozen before the mirror

youre too hard on yourself, my dear

monday 11:18

a swollen, grey tick
stepping off a leaf
onto red and black flannel
a farmer's shoulder
a forest fire

there is a plastic bag on the desk beside me
it was brought into this earth
like a robot's birth
yielding only placenta

theres a bumble bee inside of me
i feel him moving around and mutating
somersaulting transformations

the gymnast is aging throughout her routine

mosquitoes turn into vampires
like tadpoles into frogs

and i still sit and contemplate
if there is a fundamentally different
conscious experience
between the tadpole
and the frog
or this plastic bag
and the author of all this

new poem:

perched like a gargoyle
in his city apartment
smoking cigarettes
a lugubrious god has grown tired of all his obsequious friends
"the kicker is: i created all of them out of loneliness."

it does get lonely
out their in the dark
above the universes
like floating in an elevated ocean


and thomas dreamt one evening
of beginning his own candy cane ranch
where vaseline ran from the perimeter trees
like petroleum sap
"all this philosophy is so dry.
my poor, dessicated soul."

at the nursing home one evening
i saw his cowboy boots
peeking out beneath the bed
like a brown leather child
hiding behind mothers legs

he told me:
i am a toothless vampire
a frustrated cowboy
burning trash
in the front yard
after work

i used to run at night
in my youth

ive twisted my ankles
sprinting down the train tracks
on the outskirts of the city

he told me:
when the stars begin to breathe white flames
at each dark
i have squinted hard enough,
to see the luminescence
of planets
hovering outside the diaphanous, latex boundary of the universe
like a flashlight
red on the outside of your cheek

and when this happens,
a thousand single lungs
implode like sinking ships
preparing splinters
for sub-aqueous archeologists

and another:

when the trampoulines
in your backyard
begin to whisper to one another at night

they complain

bruised and sagging elasticity
like the plastic grocery bags
beneath grandma's small brown eyes

see, your children's feet
are swollen and pink
seemingly innocuous

but, physics, my dear
oh physics, adds weight to their descent
slowly tearing tarpouline flesh

a single thread extending with each bouyant landing

and while you, maam
drink brown soda pop
watching your husband fixing fences
in his leather boots
and blue jeans

the children take small flights
propelling into the warm air
that rises from the pastures
like some phantom
ascending from a freshly occupied grave

This blog will serve as an online portfolio and sketchbook for my paintings and drawings. This will allow the two or three humans interested in my art to explore some visual manifestations of my imagination. Some offhand poetry of mine will also be published herein.


a short poem:

a carbon figure
pirouetting
before a light a spray of sparks
static and tingling
like electric tentacles
glittering spinal chords

if you happen to be holding
a cardboard dandelion
set it down
on the desk

and listen closely
to the sound of
octopi turning to stone

and dropping like cannonballs
through the dark
in their heavy descent

-C.d. McKay