Pocket-Sized Masterpieces: The Joy of ATCs

There is a quiet magic in creating something beautiful with your own two hands, but there is an even greater joy in sending that piece of your heart out into the world to make a brand-new friend. This is the beautiful essence of Artist Trading Cards. These miniature works of art, affectionately called ATCs, carry a delightful tradition where the only strict rule is their size; every single card must be exactly 2 ½ by 3 ½ inches, which is the precise size of a standard baseball card.

Within those tiny dimensions, the creative possibilities are absolutely endless. You can use any medium your heart desires, whether that means drawing intricate patterns with white gel pens on dark paper, blending watercolors, or layering bits of vintage paper and ephemera for a beautiful collage. Because they are so small, there is no pressure to create a massive masterpiece; instead, you get to experiment with colors and textures, making each little card a unique expression of your imagination.

Assorted Poetry

This post holds a lot of poems I wrote back in the 80s and 90s, in no particular order. Enjoy!

Why I Write

Ever since penmanship stopped being a burden and became something that I could do well (around the age of 12, I was a late penmanship bloomer), I have been an avid writer. It did not come easily, though.

I remember suffering over "Creative Writing" exercises in 4th, 5th, and 6th grades. Being told that I was not writing poetry correctly because my poems had neither rhyme nor meter, being told that my choice of subject matter was uninteresting, being told that my stories lacked (pick something)..

Penny for your thoughts

When I was ten, I made my artist grandmother a cross for her wall by cutting a couple of chopsticks into shorter pieces with a steak knife, using a leather bootlace to bind them together, and then I used Elmer's glue to attach pennies up and down the stake and the crosspiece.

I remember having to prop the pennies so they would stay still and let the glue dry properly.

Gramma Mary hung that cross on her wall in Chicago, and then took it to California when she moved there when I was about 20. It was still hanging on her wall when she passed away, about twenty years after I made it for her.

It was kind of gimpy, but she loved it, and loved that I had spent time and effort making it for her.

I miss you, Gramma.

My Private Sanctuary of Ink and Paper

When the four walls of my home start to feel less like a shelter and more like a boundary, my creative rituals become my doorway. Being housebound can easily make a person feel adrift, but for me, passing the time isn't about killing hours; it is about reclaiming my soul and keeping my sanity intact.

The Legend of Old Yam Tits

 

Old Yam Tits was a man of great greed,
With a pocket for every dishonest deed.
He’d sell you the sun or a bridge in the bay,
Then vanish like smoke at the end of the day.

He wore a bad suit made of cheap woolen thread,
With dreams of a swindle inside of his head.
He’d promise you gold from a mine in the sky,
While looking at you with a plot in his eye.

"Just twenty gold pieces!" he’d bark with a grin,
While hiding a deck with the aces tucked in.
He grifted the baker, he swindled the cook,
He stole every page from the 'Honesty' book.

But Yam was a bumbler, a criminal joke,
His schemes always ended in mirrors and smoke.
He tried to sell water to fish in the sea,
And ended up trapped in his own lunacy.

If you see Yam Tits with his file full of lies,
Just look at the grifter with piggley eyes.
For though he is shifty and looking for loot,
He’s only hot air in a cheap, ugly suit.

And if you see him and are willing and able,

make sure that, toward him, you flip a table,

get grime and dirt on that tacky suit,

and then swing your leg and give him the boot.

(Final stanza by Dan Kupka. Don't forget to tip your waiter.)

Ink, Strings, and Serenity OR Happy Little Clouds

There is a specific kind of silence that happens the moment I cap my pen after finishing a Zentangle. My hand is usually a bit cramped from the precision of the patterns, but my mind is finally quiet. To keep that peace from evaporating, I reach for my ukulele. The transition from the visual rhythm of ink on paper to the literal vibration of strings against my fingertips is where I find my center.

It’s a world of tiny, deliberate wonders. One hour I’m watching a Shrinky Dink curl and toughen under the heat, and the next I’m assembling an angel keychain, bead by bead. These aren't just crafts; they are anchors. In a world that feels increasingly loud and disposable, these small acts of creation are how I claim my space.

The Surrenderist Guide to Optimized Existing

 

Lets be honest, the rise and grind culture is exhausting, and most life hacks are designed for people who actually have goals. If I see one more suggestion about waking up at 4 AM to drink goddam lemon water and manifest productivity, I'm going to fucking scream into a pillow until I pass out for another six hours. We do not need to optimize our workflow or shred for summer; we need strategies for when the mere act of perceiving reality feels like a full time job with no benefits. This isn't about winning at life - it's about negotiating a peaceful surrender with the pile of mail on the counter.

The Holy Trinity: Why I Keep Buying These Same Three Records

 

Most six-year-olds in 1971 were vibrating to "The Wheels on the Bus" or whatever upbeat nonsense was playing on the radio, but not me. No, I was already deep in the trenches of acoustic melancholy. I was sitting there in my kindergarten class, probably staring at a pile of blocks, while the haunting melodies of Joni Mitchell’s Blue, the earthy warmth of Carole King’s Tapestry, and the gentle drawl of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James played on a loop in my head. 

I’ve owned these albums on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD, and every digital format known to man; at this point, the only thing missing is a reel-to-reel copy, and frankly, my wallet is grateful for that one omission. 

And now, the albums.

Baby: The Other White Meat, OR Forget the Blood Libel; We’ve Got Baby Brisket

Look. Infamously, crazy fucks say Jews eat babies. This is a major lie, and everybody with a brain cell knows it. The REAL baby eaters are the atheists. They eat babies starting in the embryonic and fetal stages all the way through toddler stage.

As a baby eating atheist myself, I'd like you all to know my favorite baby meals. I am particularly fond of:

The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Left to right: Romeo, Connor, Cubby, Rocco. Cats in order: Not Bob, Mary Ann, Ada

I’m currently living in a low-budget nature documentary where the dogs are hairy potatoes and the cats are fuzzy dictators. Between Not Bob’s entitlement and Romeo’s vibrating tail, the kitchen has become a high-stakes war zone. Send help; or bacon.

I now present a world premier: The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Reclaiming Joy: From Chronic Pain to Creative Flow

It’s been years since I felt this kind of creative spark, and honestly, I’m just wallowing in it.

For a long time, I let hand arthritis convince me that my crafting days were over. I packed up the beads, put away the clay, and assumed that part of my life was a closed chapter. 

My new cussword insult list

"Cocksucker" is one of those insults that hits hard, but it hits in the wrong direction. Culturally and historically it has been used as a put down that basically says "You are a homosexual and thus you are worthy of contempt". It drags a whole group of people who never did a thing to me into a fight they were not part of. It punches down, not out. Once I actually looked at the word instead of just using it for the sound, it stopped feeling sharp and started feeling lazy...

The Voice I Thought I Lost

 

Me, 17 years old

All my childhood and teens I sang, sang all the time. Played guitar. Music was the thing that brought me to life, and I wanted nothing more than to buy a PA system and join a band. The singers I listened to shaped my style. Grace Slick, Tina Turner, Ann Wilson, Janis Joplin, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell.

My dad always encouraged me in my music, always asked me to play and sing for him, always got happy when I learned a new song or wrote one. He especially loved that. He gifted me my Harmony Sovereign for Christmas when I was twelve and paid for guitar lessons twice a week for several years. He was my biggest fan.

When I was fourteen I won a school wide talent show singing the 59th Street Bridge Song by Simon and Garfunkel and accompanying myself on my Harmony Sovereign guitar. That was the kind of kid I was. Music was where I lived...

New Art

 

There's a WHOLE bunch of new art inside...

Who has time to be bored? Not me!

Today was not really an art day. I diddled around with the Gimp for about an hour, then my writing muse slapped me upside my head. I have written six articles for my blog today about all kinds of things:

• Impeaching Trump 
• Chicago and Music being in my bones
• A bit about a portmanteued proverb I love 
• One about nicotine addiction
• One about god, or the idea of god, or whatever
• And this one, which only kind of counts

It was a productive day.

I really am an eclectic freak. Playing uke and recorder, doing digital art and zentangle and making jewelry, and writing from my gut. Between all that, I talk to people, make new friends, share a gazillion memes, play computer games, and more. And when I go to bed, I read for at least an hour before turning out the light.

I don't have time to be bored. Considering that I'm basically housebound and can't really leave my bedroom due to the difficulty involved in hauling my carcass from room to room, my life is incredibly rich and full.

I am a very fortunate old crone.

No Time For Nazi Shit

[Verse 1]

You crawl out of the gutter with your bargain‑bin hate,

Waving plastic flags like it’s 1938.

You scream about “purity,” we scream “get a clue,”

’Cause the future isn’t waiting for a coward like you.

[Pre-Chorus]

You want a world that’s small and petty,

We want a world that’s free

And every time you open your mouth,

It’s fucking blasphemy.

[Chorus]

No room for your shit in the streets we claim,

No throne for your fear, no crown for your shame.

You can march in circles, but you can’t rewrite the past

We’re the generation built to outlast.

[Verse 2]

You hide behind symbols you barely understand,

Pretending you’re a soldier in some holy homeland.

But we’ve read the history, we know how it ends

Your empire of delusion collapses again.

[Bridge]

We’re louder than your slogans,

We’re brighter than your lies.

You can’t drown out a chorus

That refuses to die.

[Chorus]

No room for your shit in the streets that we claim,

No throne for your fear, no crown for your shame.

You can march in circles, but you won’t rewrite the past

We’re the generation built to outlast.

[Outro]

So keep your brittle hatred,

We’ll keep our rebel fire

’Cause every time we shout you down,

The world climbs one rung higher.

More Zentangle

 

Punk Lyrics: The Ballad Of Andrew Mountbatten/Crown Don’t Mean You’re Clean

[Verse 1]

Silk on his shoulders, stench in his wake,

Smirking like power erases the stakes.

Thought he was bulletproof, wrapped in a crest

But secrets rot fast when they’re pressed to the chest.

[Pre‑Chorus]

All that gold can’t hide the grime,

All that lineage can’t rewind time.

[Chorus]

Crown don’t mean you’re clean, you pompous fraud,

Your kingdom cracks when the truth hits hard.

You ran from the spotlight, crawled from the scene

Turns out royalty bleeds like anyone seen.

[Verse 2]

Heirloom lies polished bright for the press,

But whispers get louder when you dodge the mess.

Tried to outrun the storm with a velvet excuse

But storms love a coward who’s got something to lose.

[Pre‑Chorus]

All that gold can’t hide the grime,

All that lineage can’t rewind time.

[Chorus]

Crown don’t mean you’re clean, you pompous fraud,

Your kingdom cracks when the truth hits hard.

You ran from the spotlight, crawled from the scene

Turns out royalty bleeds like anyone seen.

[Bridge]

No throne high enough to dodge the fall,

No palace thick enough to mute the call.

When the world starts chanting, “Face what you’ve done,”

Even blue blood curdles in the sun.

[Outro]

So bow to the reckoning, stripped of your shield

The crown was a costume, the truth is revealed.

History remembers the ones who come clean

And buries the cowards who hide behind queens.

Poem: Flood The Streets

They thought we’d stay quiet.  

They thought we’d scroll past.  

But we showed up with boots, signs, and middle fingers raised.  

We flooded the streets like a goddamn tidal wave.  

Every chant a curse. Every step a threat.  

We’re not asking. We’re demanding.  

And we’re not leaving till the bastards sweat.

You built your empire on silence and spin.  

On cages, on lies, on blood-soaked grin.  

But we cracked the concrete with our rage.  

We tore your speeches into confetti.  

We pissed on your podium.  

We screamed truth so loud it shattered your glass.

This is not a protest.  

This is a reckoning.  

This is every ignored voice turned into a fucking war drum.  

This is the sound of your power dying.  

This is the sound of us 

Unapologetic, unfiltered, unrelenting.

We don’t want your reforms.  

We want your resignation.  

We want your trials.  

We want your legacy burned down to ash.  

We want the history books to say:  

“They rose. They raged. They won.”

So keep your barricades.  

We’ll climb them.  

Keep your riot cops.  

We’ll outlast them.  

Keep your lies.  

We’ll drown them.  

Because we flood the streets.  

And we don’t fucking stop

Until you're dead and gone.