Wednesday, January 11, 2006



Undercoat (2001)

Blog with a View, at heart, is a digital art photoblog. Each Wednesday, I present an image without the clutter of blather.

Feel free to talk back to the art, should your inner critic wish to breathe free. Or, if you prefer seeing nothing scraped below the surface, exit the blog immediately and watch the Alito hearings instead.


Anonymous said...


Empty are the sleeves,
With blue wool snags
Unraveling on the hooks.

What patterns the dyes
Once flared have faded
To a uniform background.

Such a sorry lump of weave,
It slouches unrepentant
As a pile of skinned rags.

No name tags are attached;
This could belong to anyone
Which may account for why
It has never been claimed.

Dr. Mike

cruelanimal said...


Very very nice. Thanks.

Anonymous said...

Faded denim, unclaimed,
And it feels like the underneathside
Of an old toupee that's about
To be adjusted on a bald head
Still perfumed like mop water.

Sloughed off, the heap of clothes
That smell like past carnival or undecided lives
That a man with clumsy hands and
Needleprickedfingertips consciously sewed together
As though the perfumes dormant now were
Threads he had shopped for.

Like rain in july with all its lonely promises
Of nothing meaningful anymore than this. And
She likes to sit at the window. Knowing she's lost
In the patchwork sky of lightning and foldedclouds.
Her coffee smells like ten years old and Christmas
With her dad. And the glass in the window smells
Like the court house basement she got married in.

July Rain, knows that when she sniffs the
Sleeves and the pant cuffs, she will smell mop water
& cat litter and vacuum bags stuffedtoofull;
At the knees, she will discover
Where he has patched the old with new
And it will be the perfume of strikesparessplits
And exhaled pins' breath.
And at the holey pocket that his
Pens and change fell through, she will smell
Turtlewax&greasypinmachines patching it complete.

Without a nametag, its claimed by her,
A patchwork uniform that she leaves still discarded
In the floor so that the threads of its
New life will fade in eventually
Like the worn dyepatterns across its chest.

Ricky Massengale

cruelanimal said...


Nice images and you obviously enjoy having fun with form. I appreciate you sharing your poem.

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