©. Feb. 6, 2023. All Rights Reserved.
Title: Altitude of La Forza
Medium: Acrylic on canvas
Size:12” X 16”
Date: 2/6/23
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Altitude of La Forza
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Somewhere In Waterville Painting
©. Sept. 20. 2022. All Rights Reserved.
Title: Somewhere In Waterville
Medium: Acrylic on canvas
Size: 11” X 14”
Date: 9/19/22
Fashion Sketch/Hoody With Flashlights On Drawstrings
©. July 31, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
Milk and Honey Was Here
© Nov. 6, 2021. All Rights Reserved.
Title: Milk and Honey Was Here
Medium: Acrylic on canvas
Size: 11” X 14”
Date: 11/6/2021
Provenance: Ask.
Milk and Honey was here is named after the land of Milk and honey from the Bible. The male represents the milk while the female represents the honey. he is proposing, but she is walking elsewhere and the bubbles while they are underwater represent their struggles. The person on the boat in the background can represent that everyone is not around to help you or that someone is around to help you. Maybe an angel is looking after them. There’s a lighthouse in the background with other buildings, behind grassy terrains. Citizens can be seen on the bridge if you look closely and the abstract art surrounds the piece.
If I Love In The Desert
© Oct. 1, 2019. All Rights Reserved.
With a broken, black compass,
I’m painting in the desert
With mirages for brushstrokes,
Like a million inside jokes.
The sandstorms cause a rumpus.
Winds cause my eyes to avert.
If I’m lost by tomorrow,
I’ll paint on a guanaco.
I’m a starving artist here.
My poor heart can disappear.
What is this and who am I?
This could be a masterpiece.
I’m a pretentious lover,
Undeserving of my dreams.
Cactuses cry like mother
Till my wrist sees color schemes.
Replace curse with cures, brother.
Sister, ignore the sunbeams
While I feel wholly for you.
Miss me missing like a taboo.
Don’t look at me while I paint.
If I love, oh, may I faint?
Steering Austerity
© Dec. 1, 2017. All Rights Reserved.
Abnormal paranormal, so informal,
It’s a miracle.
(She’s not a garden-variety woman)
I stood watching the unwatched stalkers.
I lived living a lifeless life, here.
I’m so alone with drunk sleepwalkers,
I was numb, but now I’ll disappear.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
There’s a garden in a trailer truck.
Over the husband, the widow plants;
Then, outside the wheeler for good luck
But there’s so many ants and she chants.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
The wheeler moves; she fears going out.
Bushes grow above the clear windows.
She lurks during a blackout and drought
Where the desert has large cockatoos.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
Her unrequited passion for planting
Haunts deeply like the 8th, forbidden sea.
No seeds to accompany her panting
To crying under a burning marquee.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
Often, she drives, but nature’s yesterday
With golden compasses surrounding her
Engraved to trees like everything to say,
Deader than a sad, thinking saboteur.
(She’s not a garden-variety woman)
Abnormal paranormal, so informal,
It’s a miracle.
Seashells and Folktales
© June, 26, 2017. All Rights Reserved.
There’s a seashell on a sinking
Raft,
Where an exotic girl stands
Astray.
She’s missing; her past is
Photographed.
No one investigates for a
Day.
The day she drowned was her
Outcry.
Explored in a blood-red
Whirlpool,
Her photographs dissolved into
Tie-dye.
There’s disembodied cries; tides
Drool.
I swim maps for her kindhearted
Soul,
Practicing with a red ring
Buoy,
To one day gain
Self-control,
For she’s gone like the real
McCoy.
Bermuda Triangle.
We’re one and lost
In the Bermuda Triangle.
Yet, my heart’s lost; I’m lost
Without.
Lifeless, drenched in the red-blood
Sea,
Unseen in a misguided
Doubt.
On the shore, the other seashell’s for
Me.
Unfree, a delayed breeze, I
Overcame,
Convincing myself she’s still
Here.
“Just nothingness,” I
Exclaim,
Across sea in the
Atmosphere.
Accompanied by
Saltwater,
Freezing the seaweed into
Hooks,
Like fishing rods, bait stirs
Liquor,
Contaminated with deep
Nooks.
Bermuda Triangle.
We’re one and lost
In the Bermuda Triangle.
Seahorses assemble to
Support
A Blue Jay with a right broken
Wing.
My ring buoy’s my last
Resort,
Floating with my passport in late
Spring.
Outside a lighthouse, hurricanes
Occur.
Distractions. Underwater
Mysteries.
Uncharted islands. There’s no
Answer.
Icebergs and mountains rise and
Freeze.
The salinity of the sea of piranhas
Widen
From unscheduled sharks and
Gales
Through the dusk horizon of spoiled
Gin.
Polluted portals flood false
Folktales.
Bermuda Triangle.
We’re one and lost
In the Bermuda Triangle.
Mother Saccharine
© June 10, 2017. All Rights Reserved.
In Portland, sweet as saccharine, a mother of five, Barely alive from her harsh attack.
Wearing a mildewed, yellow shirt, Devika, 4-years-old, strangles her with a diaper.
As French chanson music plays in the township, Jane searches outside for bugs to smack.
On a drill press table, a snobbish Kim osculates her lily-white, imaginary friend lover,
Wearing an excessive amount of her mother’s make-up in her capacious closet.
Gaudelia giggles with gusto, flickering on the kitchen lights
While Samantha flushes the hurling toilet and piddles after a lazy sit.
The family cat (Damerae) is on the ceiling-mounted fan, ridding his fear of heights.
Meanwhile, as if a homemade, licorice dessert, Jane picks up a spider from a crevice
With her mouth wide open. Her mother’s mellifluous scream passes the town,
Loud enough to cease her engrossment like a timeless promise.
Jane licks the fugacious cioccolàto on her gelato cone as the sunray beams down.
“J-Ja-Jane J-Ju-Judith Frisky! Put that spider down right this second,”
Overhearing the struggling yell, Kim hits her head against the hiding wall,
Feeling like a circus animal receiving a tangible french kiss, then shunned.
Mother Purnima removes the reeking diaper from her neck, which smells like ethanol.
Of abraded skin, her sore neck matches the fudge. The rest of her children are five.
Devika stuffs a pizza slice inside a toaster with unsanitized hands.
With apprehension, an ill-starred Devika climbs down a stool able to survive,
Turning around to see the mother’s forlorn, dark figure. Purnima misunderstands.
Flicking on the light switch, mother chucks the food in the trash bin, unplugs the toaster,
Then catches the humbled black cat, (the factotum) who suffers from PTSD.
It’s the ninth time she saved Damerae’s life. She tears a rolled up poster,
Which was a silhouette of her kissing her husband between a potpourri.
Purnima yells, “Quiet!” There’s cricket sounds from the opened, front window.
She proceeds her vehement yell of verbal ecocide, “We’re going on a vacation!”
Gaudelia weeps in deep distress. Kim’s lover is see-through.
The children are held incommunicado like a solemn oath opposing desperation.
The cordial cat sweeps. Icky, white substance falls from the ceiling to the mother’s face.
Kim holds a round, black pincushion walking away as Purnima looks up.
Sections of the ceiling are covered with spoiled food. Kim pulls out pins. It’s a disgrace.
Jane enters. Damerae ogles her bowl of strawberry chutney and affogato in a black cup.
The evening is priceless. Devika twirls a vacuum cord while spraying an inhaler.
As if saliva can be refined with the mother’s touch, she wipes her forehead.
Pretending the affogato is liquor, Jane falls. It’s December,
Where Jane’s fear is ahead. Jane’s face is redder than her last bunk bed.
There’s an indefinite future when weight falls down the cat’s flexuous spine.
Devika sits on the cat giggling. Thus, the mother carries Devika.
Damerae’s form turns serpentine. Kim locks the front door. She despises the sunshine.
After adjusting her children’s booster seats, the van careens to California.
She’s going bananas. She promised herself she wouldn’t cede control of her place.
Like she’s speeding to Golgotha, she pass a bevy of benevolent pedestrians,
Who assist two, old ladies in wheelchairs cross the street. It’s an ineffable disgrace.
Her palms covers her face as Devika yells, “Green light!” louder than two martians.
She stops the van. One old lady is breastfeeding conjoined twins
While another is smoking a cigar in serenity. Thus, the smoker walks free.
The exasperated mother feels like she belongs in a loony bin as the world spins.
Crashing to her windshield, a clean-cut artist drops a red paint brush down a marquee.
The windshield is cracked. “I want to go home!” Samantha whines as screams occur.
With her face out the windshield, Purnima looks up at the guilty painter,
Then, the airbag shoots out the steering wheel. Her eyesight turns to a blur,
But she hears her children being immature. She turns into an enraged restrainer.
Purnima pops the airbag with her sharp fingernails, driving pass dilapidated buildings.
Devika’s palms connect for a meretricious prayer as her mother steps out of the car.
Wind storms from Purnima’s lungs. She screams like receiving a hundred bee stings.
The painter is petrified while the sun sets. Things can’t possibly get more bizarre.
Step Fathom
© Feb. 15, 2017. All Rights Reserved.
Hiding inside of her zipped, black, winter coat, Lunaria wears a tiny hour glass as a gold pendant attached to a stainless chain. She has black and white, camouflaged jeans and black cowgirl boots. While her puffy hair remains attached to her scalp, her hair strands moves against her walking direction. Her black cat (Zoella) meditates in Indian Style with her furry neck extended out of her black, leather purse. Bypassing several frostbitten cadavers, Lunaria ambles up a narrow, spiral, and icy stairway, attached to an unwelcoming mountain. The unsettling view below are massive vessels that appear like ants the higher she walks. Zoella hides her face in the purse as the wind proceeds to blow and the surroundings turn to pitch dark.
From the midst of the mountain, she makes a sharp right turn into a gloomy cave where slaughtered, decomposed cadavers parts surround the entrance. The strong wind blows from outside leaving a cold temperature in the cave. She keeps a deathlike stare at half of his frostbitten face. Reluctant to step closer, Lunaria smells his horrible odor. Zoella exuberantly sticks her black and white face out of the purse, and turns her head in utter disgust. The vagrant is scrawny and shirtless in his mid 30s, sluggishly, nervously walking out of the darkness. He is legally blind in his right eye.
In tears, begging with a stuttering lisp, both of his hands are positioned together, “Plea-plea-plea-the… I h-have no money to t-th-urvive. I b-beg of you. Plea-the help me.”
Lunaria responds, “It’s not up to me. You know the rules.”
Veins protrude from Cyril’s body as he argues, “B-b-but…”
“No is my final answer,” she says.
Cyril gets curious and asks, “How did you find me? Why are you here?”
Exhilarating Zoella, a sarcastic Lunaria caresses the back of Zoella’s head while saying, “You reek so bad that Zoella smelled you here. I couldn’t possibly repay her.”
“You know I can’t leave thi-th cave. If I leave, I’ll die. I’ve lived in this cave for 5 year-th…”
“And? My forefathers died trying to leave this place I bet they died by a creep. That creep looks something like you. I don’t deal with myths. There’s hidden artifacts worth a fortune in this cave somewhere and I don’t have time for your games. Tell me where the artifacts are.”
“You’ll never find them. I’ve hidden them well.”
Something odd occurs. Like human instincts, Zoella nods her head sideways. Cyril stares at the cat in complete awe. A confused Cyril wonders if Jesse nodded her head sideways was a coincidence. He’s in a predicament where he wants to leave the cave, but fears to.
Lunaria aims a handgun at a defenseless Cyril and says, “Don’t worry about Zoella.”
She aims the gun at his forehead. They hear a startling loud sound from a vessel 17,000 feet below the cave. The noise causes Cyril to fearfully speed into the darkness. Knowing there’s cobwebs and spiders surrounding the place, she shoot the gun in a standing position. She turns on a her gun-mounted flashlight that’s attached to her handgun.
Simultaneous to the flashlight producing crimson, spatial brightness, Lunaria hears the sound of running footsteps in front of her. Two, deranged girls speed out of the darkness, drenched in sweat, blood, and distress. A frightened Lunaria nearly drops her handgun as the two screaming girls speed through her physical body, jumping out of the cave, off of the mountain. The girls disappear in midair as the vision fades.
The closer she walks, the closer his crier is. The temperature changes from cold to extremely hot inside the cave. It’s approximately 98 degrees inside. She questions why the mountain still has its natural form throughout all of these years without melting. Her skin itches from the various toxic gases wandering the area. The coughing is so hard that it’s hazardous; she runs out of the hot section of the cave to breathe. Then, she slips off her winter coat before returning into the darkness.
Causing Lunaria to dart her head around her surroundings, she hears disembodied voices of defenseless women. The women are squealing while being lashed at with durable, black, leather belts. Never has she been more afraid in her life, but the prestigious reward of the artifacts is still on her mind. The thought of the reward disappears when she runs out of breath. Thus, she can’t fathom how a miserable Cyril lived in this cave for so long without committing suicide.
Lunaria stares at the disgusting sight of the roach-infested surface with the light beaming directly upon it. Dust falls from the deteriorating area above her onto her face. She wipes the dust from her face, then desperately gets on her knees to crawl. Zoella is inside of her purse that’s strapped on her back. In the crawling position, there’s little air to breathe for. When she rises her head, her flashlight is beaming on Cyril, sitting in a corner.
Cyril screams, “Pl-pl-pleeeeaaaa-ttthhe! Pl-pleathe! No! Don’t kill me! Pleathe! I kn-know you. You-you’re Lunaria!”
She rises to her feet to breathe and the temperature is once again cold. The bugs annoy her, so she shakes them off of her body. Zoella licks the neck of Lunaria. Lunaria uses her hand to brush off several bugs that crawled on Zoella. Then, she caresses the back of Zoella’s neck.
Lunaria has a horrible flashback of when she was 9-years-old. Two teenaged boys stand above her; she’s a in a supine position as the boys threaten her. 15-year-old Singleton in all black attire and a black and white, camouflaged ski mask is holding a keen knife. Singleton laughs at Lunaria’s tears and laughs harder when Jonathan (wearing a black robe) makes a malicious smile. While they stand, Esprit, Lunaria’s older sister (who is 12-years old) is staring at the entire event. Esprit is sitting calmly on a wooden bench with a newspaper in her hand and refrains from telling a soul about what occurred.
Jonathan yells, “Get up or I’ll stomp your head through the concrete! When I stomp, I’ll sell your body like your sister.”
The moment Lunaria rises half way, Singleton pushes her to the ground, saying, “If you rise, I’ll stab you with this knife, then I’m datin’ your sister!”
Jonathan laughs, “No! Esprit is mine!”
Lunaria exits her flashback and covers her head like she’s suffering severe head trauma. Blood then leaks from the right side of her abs, seeping through her black sweater. She lifts up her sweater and sees the remembrance of her stab wound. Cyril has a look of confusion on his face as she aims the gun toward his direction. She fires the gun. A bullet hits his right pinky. He screams as she aims the gun at his forehead.
3 Days Later
On a mahogany table, Lunaria is in a white bathrobe, consuming cereal while video chatting with Esprit. Zoella walks circles around her cellphone. Zoella then squeals, running off of the table. The kitchen light flickers on and off, then her bedroom light flickers on and off. A petrified Lunaria darts her head around her surroundings. Her living room, black, flat-screen television cracks on its own as if someone swung a sledgehammer at it with all of their might. Thus, Lunaria panics, screaming as she nervously rises away from her video chat conversation.
She screams again, but louder before a concerned Esprit asks, “What’s going on over there?”
Esprit hears the sound of her baby sister throwing plates from the table. The sound of Lunaria’s fish tank on her kitchen counter cracks. Esprit screams at her computer screen in concern, but then remains silent. She sees a gigantic dark shadow that’s on the wall choking her baby sister with one hand in the air. Lunaria is struggling to breathe and break free, but her neck snaps. Esprit is speechless in too much trauma to move.
For Anna
© Aug 4, 2016. All Rights Reserved.
Part 1
Fathom how she can slumber in the
Susurrus of your speckled tears in the
Tempestuous wind, yet you’re lulled by
Her blissful content.
The overture of our companionship
Awaits, but my dignity is hushed
Before your presence.
Bypassing your eminence in
Acting, from the amalgamations
Of your ethereal words, I swoon,
With reveries that you’re blushing,
But I dare not to hug you. I can give
Roses tourette’s, but you’re Godsent.
I’m quarreling with my conscience of
Squandering your valuable time from
A dunderhead like me. It’s intense.
Gingerly turning the sharp corners of
A platonic heart is a thunderous rejection.
Perhaps, you’ll notice me soon.
Part 2
Much to my desires, I recall no obsession for
Anyone like you. Solemnly swearing, my only
Nightmare is your elation excluding a
Disconsolate me.
Empower yourself unattached, but
My conceited nightmare jauntily
Dances with verisimilitude.
When delighted, you smile, but I
Expect your wry face when you know
I’ll love you in your dotage. I’m sincere.
I admire the thought of when the
Warmth of our breaths intermingle.
You’re lovely.
My beloved, I’ll caress your voluptuous
Body as you feel the winnowing from
Our protection. Your life, I intrude.
I can’t approach you. The effort
Of how I nudge your shoulder is
Beyond angst, but I mustn’t disappear.
Part 3
Surprising you are my expectations. I duly wait.
My qualms remind me you’ll be unflattered,
Let alone trust my greeting as I stammer
With perspiration.
Lacking bleary eyes, I travel the outskirts
Of town to observe you. Indeed, I’m an
Aficionado of you.
With a sunburned neck, I observe your ambidextrousness
In the Summer drought. You’re effortlessly stretching
On a two-story balcony.
As you wear an exquisite, red bra and panty embroidered
With laced, floral designs and emblazoned with studs,
I ogle at your cleavage. Sweet love deprivation.
Perfect! You’re a 5 foot 6 brunette with a 34C
Breast size, 120 pounds, and 16-years-young.
As the tears gush out of my eyes, I’m not blue.
My suī generis love, your perfect smile can
Transmogrify into a flirtatious snigger.
Please, don’t laugh at me.
Part 4
As you lip-lock the past, I’m still waiting. Teetering
On my uncooperative legs, I’ll swig the poison in
Your heart with a golden amphora, and
Festoon it with love.
My tableau of serenity is forsaken by your significant
Other, so I douse your body with my blood. I saved
My love in the hospital.
Relieved that I saved the quintessence of life,
I expect no favors. I beg of you not to faint
Again, for I’m enamoured of your breaths.
Still, you’re not acquainted with me. I’m in deep melancholy.
I simply can’t introduce myself, and still, you’re not
Acquainted with me thereof.
I see the fading bullies you face in high school for being a
Transgendered woman, and I deliberately, single-handedly
Handle them. I’m mentally stable.
With dwindling depression, I’m reluctant to cordially say I share
Your sympathy. It’s me sneaking starry love letters in your book
Bag and lunch box. Your troubles are missing in a thousand deaths.
Part 5
Today, I mournfully observe you wearing your black,
Sequinned spaghetti strap, bell-bottom,
blue jeans with black puppy
Paws as designs.
Walk in those black, high heels. The adversity
On your worse day allegorizes my ambitions. My
Fun-loving woman, I’m always vigilant.
Follow the trail of love letters to gillyflowers, which conveys my
Everlasting love, and sense my ephemeral life lurking in your
Deepest demands.
The nostalgic memories of you sucking on a pacifier
Comforts my soul. Nuzzle against my face, and veer
Not like me. For you, I abandon my bloodlines.
To scald your breast milk on my tongue
Is a sensational moment for a masochist
Like me. My time is well spent.
I dream of showing you the world
Without insecurities. Promise me us,
And I give you preplanned dreamlands.
Part 6
As much as I adore you, I find new ways to adore
You everyday. Born in a town where it’s illegal to
Talk over ten seconds in public,
I overthink about what I can say to you.
Yet, I see others unworthy of your time.
Collin, spewed through a straw into
Your edible lunch in the cafeteria.
He wore a black undershirt with grey cargo pants, and black
Boots. Undeniably, I followed him home to shoot him
Through the front window.
Passionately, smile when you hearken to his death over the intercom.
I blink not when I watch you articulate the next love letter hidden
In your locker by your secret admirer. Think about me anew.
I watched you bash your head on the bathroom mirror until you bled.
Angie, your bully (with a yellow tank top and green khakis) screamed at the
Sight, dropping her cup of coffee. Angie then invited guffaws. Oh, the hysteria.
Lacerations cross these forlorn eyes. There’s despair in the
Temperature, but for you, I activated a bomb in Angie’s car.
I stress to wonder if you’ll see me tomorrow.
Part 7
Two days later, verily I lynch two police officers from a
Marquee on the highway. They mocked you for extended
Time just as the school principal did. For you, I stabbed
His face on a stove top burner.
Then, I tossed his grubby fingers under the kitchen sink.
It’s a gentle touch of alleviation. It’s the least I can do.
Now, everyone’s in horror and trepidation.
It’s more complicated for you to date. The suspicion of my uprising
Crimes are on the loose. Eventually, you find dates, but I
Needlessly wonder if I’m meant for you.
The penumbra of your gifts are an inspirational enlightenment. Unbeknownst
To you, my heart throbs fairly fast. Adamant of not conforming, I observe
You with honor, wondering when we’ll meet each other.
My heart is your bastion of harmony as I dwell in the memories
Of you straying pass majestic landscapes. I cuddle against the wind
Of your movements, inhaling a higher emotion.
Your peripheral vision won’t capture my patience.
As you discover a love letter in your bed, I count your breaths,
Overwhelmingly, you smile. Smile anew.
Isaiah Lawrence 