Not Too Late

It's a bird, no, a word; it's a plane, no, a poem; it's Superman, no, Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious passion fish and poem frites, wrapped in paperless print, and bound in a panoply of Poemflit, for your enjoyment, and also as a hellish hiccup of presque vu haecceity. #APoemADay lets sanity hold sway. Poemflit #2 in the Purloin Like a Poet series. "Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo" - Don Marquis I scribble , dribble and doodle.

I sculpt in clay for bronzing; paint anything under the sun; write children's stories and illustrate them. I read a lot.

When I'm not in the studio covered in paint; working on a new picture story; doodling cartoons, or reading; I reluctantly go to the gym. (In the basement, now!) Or travel to far-off places. (BC)

I once lived in a rainforest.

Once upon a time I worked as an engineer on secret projects. And also underground in a gold mine.

I have a lot of Neanderthal DNA. Relatively speaking.

I can wiggle my ears.

I have two cats.