It is never easy for me to choose a cover. I almost always have a very specific idea. Then I have to use my words and stick figures to relay it to an artist and hope they see my vision as clearly as I do. There are other considerations as well. Will it look good in print? I wanted a red background for CAW: Poetry by a Murder of Writers but the proofs looked terrible. I did right by Echo, the CAW cover bird, by going with the much better looking blue background. That cover had at least 40 edits! Praise be for the wonderful patience of his creator.

I've known the title of my next book for years. In fact, I have a standing list of titles on post-it notes on the wall in front of my desk. I move them up and down depending on what strikes my fancy. The current number one will most likely be the title of my third book. But lets not get ahead of ourselves... 

Before there were poems, there was paint. Fingerpaints!

I wasn't allowed to be angry as a child. Growing up with parents who were unregulated taught me that anger wasn't an emotion; it was a scary explosion. I learned to fear it, to bury it, and to hide from it, especially when it was carrying a ping-pong paddle or a hangover.  For years, I carried a secret belief that if I ever let myself feel anger, my own daddy monster would emerge with raging fists. So I buried it. Even now, while I can stand beneath a full moon and howl until my voice dissolves into the night, or more often is joined by a chorus of coyotes, I can't bring myself to scream.

A few years ago, I realized I had no healthy tools for anger. I wasn't afraid of the feeling itself. I was afraid of what I believed it would make me become. My therapist offered me an unexpected invitation: angry painting. The rules were simple. You could only use primary colors, you couldn't use more than three colors, and the only tool you could use was your hands. I was skeptical. (I usually am but I'm also a perpetually curious person who is usually down to clown.)

I covered my outdoor potting table in butcher paper, then I sank my fingers into the paint. I thought the paint texture might put me off but it didn't so I chose my favorite color scheme of red, black, and white. There is something profoundly healing about giving your anger a place to exist outside your body and smearing it, pushing it, watching it mix into something unexpected. I felt my anger lifting as I started seeing shapes in the paint I'd Jackson Pollacked all over the place.  If finger paint came by the gallon, my studio would probably be overflowing with it. 

This is one of those pieces. Every time I look at it, I see a crow emerging from the center, a creature I have loved my entire life, one that has found its way into my writing again and again. It reminded me of laying on the grass in the backyard and finding visions in the clouds. I have since painted several of these. The last one I was determined to somehow use in my upcoming full-length poetry book. Then I forgot about it and it sat out in the rain. But the water created an interesting effect that I loved. 

Hidden beneath the poems  on Comfort Chaos,  you will find the evidence of another kind of writing, one that happened without words. I created a digital version of that rain splattered painting and used it as the manuscript's background art.  Of course, there will also be some artistic flair from a local artist added to it, which I will reveal in the next couple of months. 

What healthy tools have helped you make space for your anger?