Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Three Weeks

Small tiny rings with itsy bitsy cupcake strings,
I'll bake you cookies at sunrise,
And wash it down with milk in the afternoon.
We'll build paper kites out of bad news papers,
And fly away on an uncontrollable wind,
The color of New Years.
You'll listen to me hum songs like the rain,
And I'll watch your laughter knock you back,
Into Yesteryear,
Where you still count all your candies,
On Halloween,
And only trade me the caramels,
Because they stick to your teeth.


She is wearing her Tuesday's best. He is wearing his Friday's worst. She invites him to sit at her wooden table and in her wooden chair. He would rather lounge in her creaking rocker upon the sunny porch. She offers him a cup of coffee, drenched in too much sugar. He politely accepts and swigs the sickening concoction in one gulp. He smiles and she smiles. Both are stretched far beyond what is necessary during these kinds of things.

Then the forced expressions settle into a serious frown. It is time to talk of business.

He speaks rather loudly and waves his hands about like a pinwheel. He does not approve of her price. She keeps her frail hands folded neatly under a round chin. She is a professional. He stares at her with hardened eyes and she looks calmly back. He is out of breath, but his jaw still wags up and down in the air, nipping at words that will not come.

Now both are silent.

He buries his head in his hands and relents. She smiles understandingly and crosses to him. He looks into calm eyes as she caresses his cheek. She lets her palm glide smoothly down his neck. She lets her fingers wrap tightly round his throat and her nails dig in his skin. He does not scream as she lifts his face away. He does not cry when she folds it into her dresser drawer. He only watches with those hardened eyes of his.

She wraps his head in a tattered cloth and sends him home with potpourri. She whispers to place the token under his mattress. He gets out of the wooden chair and stumbles away from the wooden table. He passes the sunny porch and creaking rocking chair. He is headed home.

She turns away from him and opens her wooden drawer. She gazes upon the folded faces placed neatly in a row. She picks a darker face and holds it in the light. It sags between her long long fingers. It is riddled with scars and pocks. She frowns deeply and takes it to her chair. It lays patiently in her lap as she gathers her needles and thread. It does not cry out as she begins to work. It does not worry about it's fate. She is a professional. She will return it tomorrow.

Until then, it will wait and she will sew while the rocking chair rocks back forth, back forth, on a Wednesday afternoon.


Procrastination is key,
I would finish this,
If I hadn't so many other things to do,
I'm quite busy you know,
Candy Girls is on,
ANTM is next,
I like background noise while I work,
And to keep my hands busy with food.
Before I know it,
It's past one o'clock,
And I haven't accomplished anything,
Why is life so complicated?
I wish I could just paint a rainbow,
Of satellite dishes and cable tv,
That way there'd always be something on.


Wow. I've been really slacking on my writing posts! Here's three weeks of stuff I should've posted earlier. I have some longer fairytales in the works, but with all of these portfolio submission deadlines, I can't really find the time to sit down and finish them.

Thus the procrastination poem was born.

Speaking of, I should really be getting back to work. Or bed. I'll be sure to post some more artwork later on this week just to prove I've actually been somewhat efficient.


  1. I wanna see this demo-reel!!

  2. The first is my favorite. I can see the scenes play in my head. <3 I love it.

  3. ahahahaha, i know where you are coming from...
    I've been behind too. I will post them soon, it just takes a while to force myself. Guuuuh.
    Love the imagery of the first.
    And the second is amazing! I love the concept!