The Provo Museum of Postal Art

  Wednesday. May 29. 2024.  Provo Utah. Doctors. X Rays. Blood tests. Post nasal drip.  Old age should be spent sitting on a porch, sipping lemonade and watching grandchildren tumbling on the lawn. Or bundled up in a fluffy quilt by the fire on a cold winter evening, enjoying hot chocolate with marshmallows. Anyway – it should be spent in pleasant surroundings, at home. But Amy and I are in for a long haul of doctors and clinics, pharmacies and MRIs, as villainous old age reveals its true character – something out of a Stephen King novel, ready to pounce on our simple quiet lives like a werewolf. And yes, this journal entry, this daily diary scribble, will be all about our health, and the lack thereof. This is what old people experience; what they talk about; and what they write about. It is what interests me the most right now. Not the war in the Ukraine or Israel vs Hamas or the continuing inroads of inflation.  Both Amy and I are weary, but game.  We will sol...

  I have no more energy, or interest, in a grudge match. So I'm moving on . . . what i've decided is to plant myself at the intersection of state street and center street with my poet for hire sign (which I have done often in the past) in order to snag the occasional bumpkin who actually pulls into the Fresh Market parking lot to order a poem from me. I'll charge 30 bucks which they can pay by venmo or in cash. They get my poem by email.  and the beauty part is that while the poem itself will be AI generated, I will have a forum (albeit of just one person) where I can display any other original poetry or essay I may be working on at the time.  In addition, I will be building up an email list that I can use to send out future literary shenanigans.  And just so you know, people do occasionally pull up to the curb and hand me money w/o asking for a poem in return; so there's that. This morning I'm resting for a while before going out.  I had a bad night; I had to s...

t has been exactly one year since I began displaying my poetry on the public sidewalk in front of Hruska’s Kolaches on Center Street in downtown Provo.  Mostly because the foot traffic in the mornings is good, and because it is within walking distance of our apartment (I have mobility issues and sometimes use a wheelchair.) I write my haiku or senryu on a whiteboard and then put the whiteboard on a small tripod right in front of my wheelchair.  Next to the sign I place a small red bowl, in case anyone wants to show appreciation for my work with a cash donation. I make it a practice not to start any conversations, but if people want to talk to me I am happy to answer any of their questions. As I say – I’ve been doing this for a full year, with no complaints from anyone.  In fact, one of Hruska’s managers paid me to write a poem about their business. Many people nod, smile, and wave at me – including dozens of police officers from the nearby Provo Police Department. So ima...

  trapped in the mirror -- in a flimsy kimono -- not my best profile.    

  Diary. Tuesday. April 16. 2024 Woke up at 610 this morning with a headache and sore neck. We didn’t get to sleep last night until after midnight, which always leaves me a wreck the next day. So I didn’t get a proper haiku written. Instead I just took out my handy dandy ‘poet for hire’ sign to the kolache bakery from 7 until 11.  Today’s haul was 40 bucks.  I was pretty proud of myself for bringing in that much until I talked to daughter Madel, who told me that grandson Deisel made $400 last night doing doordash for just a few hours.  I guess I’m in the wrong bizness. I was hired to write one poem by a professional photographer and artist (that’s what her bizness card said, anyway.) About loving yourself and the life around you.  Here is what ChatGPT produced: In the glow of dawn's first light, where dreams are spun so bright,   There lies a whispered promise, in the morning's gentle sight.   Each day unfurls like petals, in a dance of bold ...

  I've given up on postcards. I like to create them and send them to real live people, but like you say the price is getting ridiculous. Besides, postal art no longer fits into my Life Triangle. I wrote it down and shared it with Amy after General Conference last Sunday.  It looks like this (you have to draw in the lines from one subject to the next to get the geometric figure of a triangle):                                                                  Christ/Temple work Amy/our marriage/our family                           ...

  So i started out as a clown/panhandler back in 2012 in Washington DC, when i got laid off. I’d spent 20 years as a circus clown, then worked in an office. Then got laid off. So out of desperation i put on my clown makeup and outfit and scripted a crude sign on poster paper that read: UNEMPLOYED CIRCUS CLOWN. PLEASE PUT ME IN THE WHITE HOUSE WHERE I BELONG! (Photos Welcome.) I made about sixty bucks a day. Only hassled by the Capitol Hill cops once. Tourists disgorged from their tour buses to snap my photo by the hundreds. Fast forward to 2023. Living in Provo Utah. i’d been writing limericks and haiku and posting it on social media, where it caught the eye of a local TV news reporter. He did a piece on my work. Then my wife Amy got the idea I should advertise out on the street. So i did. Got a few assignments. Then AI took over the writing of poetry. (And if you don’t believe me, well . . . time will tell.) So i decided to write an original poem every day, put it on a white board...