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• September 2010

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• Support a Deserving Artist - Why not buy a T-shirt?

  
  For those of you who don't know, I am also a designer by trade. I have a number of T-shirt designs for sale through Cafe Press. These are largely pertaining to the Martial Arts or Fitness.

  

  
  It would mean the world to me if you would be so kind as to click on the image above to visit my humble shop and take a look. (This link will open in a new window).

Archive directory

• 2010, week 36 (1)
• 2010, week 33 (5)
• 2010, week 32 (1)
• 2010, week 31 (2)
• 2010, week 29 (2)
• 2010, week 28 (6)
• 2010, week 27 (3)
• 2010, week 25 (3)
• 2010, week 23 (2)
• 2010, week 22 (6)
• 2010, week 19 (10)
• 2010, week 16 (1)
• 2010, week 12 (1)
• 2010, week 11 (6)
• 2010, week 10 (2)
• 2010, week 8 (4)
• 2010, week 7 (1)
• 2010, week 3 (2)
• 2010, week 2 (4)
• 2009, week 45 (1)
• 2009, week 43 (3)
• 2009, week 40 (2)
• 2009, week 39 (1)
• 2009, week 38 (4)
• 2009, week 30 (3)
• 2009, week 28 (4)
• 2009, week 27 (3)
• 2009, week 26 (3)
• 2009, week 25 (1)
• 2009, week 23 (3)
• 2009, week 22 (4)
• 2009, week 21 (5)
• 2009, week 20 (1)
• 2009, week 11 (1)
• 2008, week 46 (1)
• 2008, week 44 (1)
• 2008, week 38 (1)
• 2008, week 36 (2)
• 2008, week 34 (1)
• 2008, week 31 (1)
• 2008, week 28 (1)
• 2008, week 26 (3)
• 2008, week 25 (2)
• 2008, week 24 (3)
• 2008, week 23 (2)
• 2008, week 22 (6)

• Awake at 3 AM

  
  Awake at 3 AM and the clock
  flashes the time to my conscience.
  Toss and turn on the uneven bed
  fix the covers, sheets and pillows
  listen to the grinding of your neck
  in blue midnite impatience
  there is no grace in insomnia
  only deadpan fatigue, a soul
  leaking slowly from the corners of your eyes
  I bounce my leg, for lack of a tail,
  think happy thoughts, deepen
  my breathing, pray for peace of mind,
  for once, for a good night’s sleep
  and find that this doesn’t work either.
  The dog barking and that asshole
  slams his car door again,
  the furnace kicks in fits and blows air in,
  the ticking clock is a pounding drum and
  my neck is sore from the pillows.
  I bury my thoughts in a basket of
  dirty laundry, the room is a mess
  and my life is no better
  the light in the other room is still on
  and the tape in my mind replays over and
  over
  and the time ticks by again at 3:30 AM.
  I’m waiting for the music to begin
  for the song sung by valkyrin and
  choirs of angels, a heavenly lullaby
  a kiss on the eyelids and softly tucked in.

  © 2008 Anthony Sell
   

• Recent Posts

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  • A good painting day.
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  • Hit my upper limit today.

• Labor Sons

  
  And I dream
  in those quiet times
  of friends past
  and faces lost
  words spoken, or not,
  of clasping hands
  and weary eyes.

  I dream of lovely agonies
  and careless minutes
  strewn, about
  grinning stupidly
  at the humdrum
  of daily shuffle
  and passing time.

  Labor sons, we trusted
  the clock, plodding
  and plotting to overcome it,
  the week, the day
  the hour, the damned
  Banker’s hour
  and the shallow dollar.
  The Butcher’s week.

  Pockets pleading and
  shoulders tight, the way
  was to not-think
  to think of anything
  somewhere else
  and bide, silently bide
  we chewed our tasteless
  food with the same
  mechanical efficiency.

  © 2.14.08 Anthony Sell
  
  

• And I love you with your crooked teeth.

  
  Your hand touches mine
  we turn to face each other
  on the pillow
  looking down
  your eyes dance darkly
  through your lazy bangs
  watching my hands
  our fingers entwine
  and the corners of your mouth
  turn upward just slightly
  I touch your hair
  black as kitten fur, and as soft
  the room, cast vermillion,
  gold and apple green
  dappled in sunlight,
  my heart is a violet sponge
  we kiss lightly and breathlessly
  enter the same dream.

  © 2.26.08 Anthony Sell

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