THE ART AND LIVES of Francy and Steve Stoller /This has been a long time coming and we are bracing for the second novel

• The Memoirs Of An Unknown Artist/John Serpent/$4.95/Amazon-Kindle/e-book/wireless with an unpublished portrait of James Baldwin on the cover. We thank-you for your support ahead of time. The characters in this book are inspirational and family. Please take this journey into the early seventies through 9/11-with Etheridge Knight/Elizabeth McKim/Bradford Boobis/Henry N.Madden.

The end of the beginning of never/We return from the woods/wide-eyed

• We are in this ice covered cottage somewhere north of the Adirondacks/the morning snaps me out of bed and to the side door window/ the river is very frozen/there is a wooden house very close to the cabin/steep stairs go up the back of this structure/I can hear a loud radio playing some familiar talk show/ on the edge of the ice crevasse jutting into the point of entry into the back of the house/I see two pure white beagles and other unidentified animals/I cross out toward them/walk over some antique quilts lay behind the next door house/I am almost at the edge of the river/the animals are gone.

With honor to Elizabeth McKim/Having Come This Far/Always has to go further/A WANTON CHILD IN THE PARK

• Once when we were traveling on the motorcycle/we stopped in this dusty town and had a coke/I was afraid/where is Steve/was he going to find me/Here I am in Sweden/and he's in West Virginia/why was I so alone/didn't he know that I was calling him. What are we doing now that someone is calling us and we don't know . Do you write on the subway when you're going to work. Is that lil' journal in and out of your pocket/like some crazed person. What did you learn at the park/not to sit on people's feet at concerts/that your baby needs a chance to excel/that pride is given by the parents/poor children /the ones who are without their working pare

  nts/trying to give more and more/building a foundation of brick/a fortress which works/a hollow log to cozy up to at night. My girl put the baby's sweater and hat on/I took it off/like some silly child/it's 75degrees in the sun/but this princess must be swaddled in a half sleeping bag and two layers/but my little baby boy is wet and drenched with water that the lady permitted him to drink out of a miniature Evian bottle/we watch the crowd with a wistful eye/my grandbaby boy and I/what horror has my daughter seen that permits her to let her baby go naked in the park w/ the cold Fall shadows lurking/her grand view of the world/her new venture in motherhood/oh cut the shit/she tells me/she knows about gentility and grace/she is a master of finesse/she's the proper one/and to boot/the kid had the time of his life/how/tell me how could she be this high/MOMEEE/dADDEEE/ who will carry the dirty children home/w/muddy faces/ahh the soap smells sweet/sit down and wait for the bread to rise/always known the answers/watching it turn/bursting out/one last time.....Thank-you Sis

The morning shows us that there jus' no use in being scared/We are on the cusp of the New Year

The old building is holding its own. We try to keep up with the rumble tumble of an historic landmark reaching back to 1800's. The spirits keep turning over and over/the ghost of W.C. rocks the upstairs/ Houdini performed here/he and his wife visit with us especially at dinnertime. This week has been a fight and a half. We survived the rejections of our novel and the disappearance of some of our favorite collectors but when I wrote on the New York Times blog that I never look for lumps on my body/rather stay in a worried state about my children's health and furthermore complimented the chick who did the whole nine yards and managed to document the phases so beautifully/ I got slammed into an erased state. Medical procedures are prevalent everywhere/I don't believe in discouraging them in anyone who goes that way/but to black me out for quoting from a poem , Beauty and Truth ,like a rainbow/halo/will be spread like spring, by Pablo,Ben and Alo, and speaking from my heart about my own body is wrong. Then I looked back at the blog a few hours after my piece was nixed and noticed this other entry paraphrasing the good in mine/what courage/what beauty/ but the author left himself out. Doesn't good writing hinge on the complete disclosure of the author. Don't we as writers has the responsibility to include a pure thread of humility.

We wait for something to happen/something great/likea sale or an interested gallery/poetry venue

• We got back from the circus. My old friend Smitty let us sit in the first row. The knife swallower started sitting on dad's lap. This made me very nervous. When Smitty came on stage he started to wink at us and his best lion started growling. I enjoyed the high-wire act and remembered when I was nineteen running away to Poland with the Holiday on Ice Show. Why did I believe when they told me they raped babies/kids were screaming/it was a joke. A lot of my references are jokes / I grew up gullible and naive. Did you