This poem sort of goes with this piece. The piece is a self portrait I did a few years ago when I was feeling like a kind of magnet for nonsense. When you pull the tassels, the monster on my head talks and Jack, my old dog, wags his tail and eats Petie's paw (Petie is the orange cat in my arms). The grey cat is my sweet gone Sam who has his hackles up. The piece is made out of old Christmas catalogs.

The Chosen


By fate, by God, by genealogy,
          by birthplace or time,
          by muses or monsters,
          by lovers or bullies,
          by the faithful or the users,
                    by Lady Luck or the Evil Eye,
                              or sometimes by cats.
Chosen to fill a need, a vacancy, a niche.
Chosen for blessings or cursings.
Chosen to be victim, redeemer, or friend.

Is it to be judged elect then--
          as by team captains in street ball?
Or is it also like the dolphin
                    picking at the whirling bait ball
Or swallows darting at shoals
                              of new hatched Mayflies.
Or is it to be culled
          like a cougar sites and stalks the dawdling?

Are we chosen for our particularities
          like a puzzle piece or the right kind of glue?
Or for our similarities
                    like flashy reef fish finding each other.

Chosen for a boost up, a head start, the ladies' tee,
          for the corner table, a second chance.
Chosen for our friends, our creed, our beauties, our gifts,
                    or even just our willingness.
Chosen out of some cosmic need for champions
                              and for scapegoats.

This being chosen--
          never an uncomplicated thing--
                    the blessing
                              inside the curse
                                        inside the blessing.