I wrote the following to Rick Mobbs‘ painting and find myself pretty well diverted and amused; I am pleased by the half-hour spent and I have to credit Mr Mobbs for offering his work to lax blahgers with wayward mornings.
Hers was a charitable smile that was shaped like the moon – and she had eyes like no man. She was rune-etched by wrinkles but not by hard time, but hypnotic and brushstroked and mad, and when she laughed her witch-cackle and she threw back her head you could read fortunes in the crick of her neck. She smelled like the attic; her hair was steel wool and her fingers gnarled like root. Her spine was an old husk that was shaped like the letter “c” and she looked like she were searching for pennies. She once drowned in the well when she nickled her wish to never, never die, so she climbed up just soaked-through and sopped and her body was gray bloat and plump, and kindly even – if she happened to wear the right dress.
She grew-up in Casner and she believed in rusted iron and she caught the cholera seven or eight times and she left a mess wherever she went.
She came to Chicago in 1933 and she worked in a soup-kitchen that was owned by the mob and she ladled-out kindness denied many men, for the water was whiskey she found in a bucket and it seemed it would never go dry. She washed out her pot in the gutter under a bridge and it killed all the homeless in time.
She lived in a trailer. She had just three pairs of shoes and a trinket she bought from a gypsy. She pawned all her teeth for gin and an old deck of cards, and she poisoned herself when she blackjacked the dust-queen of Hearts.