Category Archives: Art

Wood, paper sculpture, pen and pencil…. not all mediums were made equal.

Introverts Galore

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In addition to my semi regular¬†Last Week’s Poetry¬†feature, and my temporary series,¬†The INTP’s Guide to Everyone Else, I’ve decided to start posting a series of comics I’ve been working on for the past few months. It’s another Myers-Briggs inspired thing, and I’ve decided to call it “Introverts Galore.” Because introverts. Lots of them.

Look for these comics on Sunday, and if you like what you see, please feel free to like, share, and/or comment. I ‘preciate it.

M.
Nov 13/16

The art of taking poor-quality photos

Look and think before opening the shutter. The heart and mind are the true lens of the camera.”
– Yousuf Karsh

It used to be that people would give me strange looks when I mentioned that I took pictures on my fourth-gen iPod. “Don’t you have a phone?” they would ask, slightly taken aback. “Does that work okay for you?”

While it’s true that many late millennials and generation Xers have easy access to the newest in technology Continue reading The art of taking poor-quality photos

The Canvas

This one’s slightly older, but I felt it was a good stand-in for this week. In my experience, this is how artists function.

Whenever I want to bleed
I can make
The canvas bleed instead

It seems cruel
Sometimes
To run it red

But then again
It cannot feel
The way skin feels

Or hurt the way
My head
And my nerves do

Whenever I want to bleed
I can make
The canvas bleed instead

It absorbs the stings
Of a thousand
Aching brushstrokes

And it cries with
Watered-down acrylic tears
On porous intimacy

And it heals itself
With layered blood
When ripped to pieces

M.
Feb 12/16
“The Waterserpent,” acrylic on paper

When There Are No Words

When the world isn’t the way it’s
supposed to be
my head
– my mouth –
They aren’t either.

We spit up empty lies
– I’m just glad you said it
like it was –
and my thoughts
Shit,
I didn’t notice they
turned into my feelings.

I can swear as long as it’s a poem,
right?
This isn’t wrong
– I’ll tell you what is:
Everything.

Fucking life.

I would like to
(thankyouverymuch)
live a certain kind of lie.

I love being this thing
some would call “unique”
I love it,
but cut out the scene where
she dies of cancer.

Cut out the scars that
never faded
– cut them out with
a sterile needle
and paste in the credits, rolling
like this is just another damn dream.

Cut out the garbage
words like
“abuse”
“depression”
“intelligent”

I like being intelligent, but
sometimes I like it too much.

Cut out my heart –
Shit, hold up –
put it back inside
my hollow chest.

There’s no way anyone can
mend this sort of damage
– not with words, anyways –
and I thank God
that you said you wouldn’t try.

It’s not right to say things,
empty things.

It’s not right to compare who’s
worse off, because
we all are.

It’s not right to say I can’t grieve
as if I had
a fucking chance
to change all this.

You’re damn right in saying
that swearing is wrong.

But sometimes there are no words –
and when there are no words
I use them all.

M.
Mar 4/16
acrylic on canvas, Feb/16