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A Negro Woman With Bright Orange Hair

Under a dome of a clear Caribbean night, a yacht waits in the bay. A Negro woman with bright orange hair lies naked on the deck, bathing in the moonlight. A cigarette lies quietly between her lips. The smoke curls up like a small white snake into the darkness. Reaching for a towel, she stands up and wraps it around her waist. A soft breeze caresses her shoulders as she leans over the side of the deck, staring at the reflection of the moon in the bay. Laying like a huge pearl under the sea. Remembering when she was a little girl and they used to dive for silver dollars from the American cruise ships. Someone grabs her by the shoulders and presses himself against her. She drops her cigarette into the moon.


Hard Brush Soft Paint

December 29, 2008

I am starting a new series of poems that I wrote some time ago. They were meant to be a series of poems written by some unknown poet. Poems that I found. I still like the idea that I am one removed from the work. Like being Theo rather than Vincent Van Gogh. (Perhaps that is being a little presumptuous.) I had given the author a name, history, a portfolio. As if he really existed. In a different time. A different place. One of the theories presently making the rounds in physics is that there may be other worlds out there, identical to our own. Which means that there may be worlds that fit all possibilities (within the laws of physics). Which means that my author could exist and the poems that I wrote but passed on as his could in some other possible world have been his work. And what does this say about my work? Well the possibilities make me dizzy. The first poem in this series is A Boy’s World, submitted earlier today.

A Boy’s Life

December 28, 2008

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A Boy’s Life

Like water through fingers, a boy’s life runs through his father’s hands. Dragons behind the roses. Castles in the clouds. Laughter stirring up the wind. Pounding the earth in submission with secret rastlin’ holds. Monsters in puddles of darkness. A chest trembling. A father hugging away every fear. His back bending. Trembling hands. Grip growing weaker. Mind wavering in the years. Splashing his face with the picture of his son curled up in a pocket of sleep.

Faces

December 23, 2008

The puzzle of women. A patchwork of faces. Recompiled. New smiles. ccf12172008_00003

Church Street Is Burning

December 14, 2008

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Illustrations from a book of poems called Church Street Is Burning which was a finalist in the Eppie Awards for poetry. The music is Nightmare by Artie Shaw

Church Street Is Burning

Growing Up

December 7, 2008

Another video. This one about growing up. In an imagined suburban life. There are stories attached to each of these made-believe photos. The music is Traffic by Artie Shaw.

My Funny Valentine

December 6, 2008

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This is a video of some work I did call The Calendar Girls. The song is My Funny Valentine, sung by Chet Baker.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1677013848313835886

To Publish or Not…

December 2, 2008

That’s the question now. I would like to publish Snow as part of a series of stories about Detective Kelly.

One Question:

Epublish or Print?

I guess you publish where you can. But  my experience in both areas has been mixed.

On the one hand epublishing is fast and that can be exciting. The problem is getting people to actually buy and/or read your book. A lot of epublishers don’t seem to have found the formula for transmitting a manuscript into a career. I am beyond the vanity press level.

The print world is slow. And you don’t really know if your work even is looked at. And in Canada at least you may get published by a series of publishers but no one publisher takes you on for an extended time and attempts to do something on the market with your work. This may be different of course in different genres. (Did I misspell genres?) I don’t know what it is like in the romance, sci-fi, or mystery area. My work has been outside easy classification. Many years ago a reviewer called it genre bending. Most or all  of my books were published by small presses where you are unlikely to make a living off anything you publish.

Well, one must persist. I love to write. I might as well see if anyone loves to read it.

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