I am a very passionate person, in every sense of the word. And one of the things that excites me is bright color. The perfect neon of these flowers, the plant of which I named Sunshine, brought me bliss. I love art for the colors. Line is secondary to me. I like bright, rainbow colors. I love the blending and the contrast between them.

I’ve discovered a course on Coursera that shows how abstract painters make their paintings. I am going to watch it in the next day or two to learn some tricks. I’ll never be a great painter, or even a good one, but I miss playing with color and texture. I saw a painting at the museum Craig and I went to the other week that looked like it was made out of cake frosting. That is the kind of texture and weight I want my paintings to have. I want to learn how to make the colors tango together.

I am passionate in other ways too. Some of my poems are erotic. Very erotic.  Not all of my poems of course. I don’t have a completely one track mind. But in all my writing there is a passion for sex or for color or for the moodscape of the mind, for words and their immense charms.

My passion for learning started when I was very young. As a kid, I used to accompany my mother to her university and sit in the library reading academic journals while she was taking classes. I consume nonfiction rapidly. I love history, culture, art history, psychology, sociology, faith, and more.

Poetry and art consume me. Desire consumes me. Knowledge fills me without satiating me.

Life is just too short. I don’t think I’ll ever have the time to learn everything I want to learn, write everything in my head that longs to be written, to create everything that makes my eyes itch.

My inspiration and creativity wax and wane, and right now they are high. I need to keep learning new things, start painting, write more.



The spirits wash

their aeon voices in my sink.

Dizzy neon fish wiggle

through the water.

I am naked.

This is not a good thing.

My clothes are floating in the

vast oxygen above me.

I’ve been breathing bare black

for so long that my blood

is burning obsidian.

Desire –





My spirit waiting impatiently

to birth through my stormy eyes

and gain a voice.


Seaweed, moss, flowing in the undercurrent.

Water seeps under

My door.




I have bled for this thought.

Triangular thought in taupe.


Taupe does not belong me,

An alien that invaded my ear.


Oh the extraterrestrial voices I hear.



The current pulls me out the door into the creek,

Leaving my husk behind.


The taupe triangular alien adrift

In my rust scented blood cells.