How to make sense in a world neglecting crayons. I need paper please that white blank paper is vital so much is vital so much is vital so much is missing. If I cannot make sense (and I cannot buy it) then I must steal sense. Take it with my chalk hands, leave finger outlines on the black … Read More Making Sense
Three cheers of a dusted dawn; electric angels sweep the streets, and light clouds skip stones against the still lavender waters of the canal. Earth sings her morning tune, low and orange against the cool palm breeze. Creation calms and tells me I must start today from the inside. No half expressions.
Collapsing I tucked my head against my chest and listened to my heart beat. Strong it whispered and my ego faltered and I could hear the ego falter— and I, faltering, briefly exposed an open window to torrential rain marooned against a million chairs held up hardly at all. The trick is always to let the rain in and the carpet go.
Surely it can’t all be cast to the tan lines. The sun—our cicerone across this celestial plane, casting her silhouettes upon skin shapes etch-a-sketching that which we outfit ourselves with— Surely. That can’t be it. Because I see him
At the end of it all rests the trees. Time stands just as requested in the company of pines. My steps are holy circles, hewn deep and echoing; I listen as my ten-thousandfold world system shivers like a wheel barrow child barreling down a grassy slope, arms stowed against chest. Bullets rain dully, as dumb as porcelain and half so strong.
I am the mountain against the shattered panes of glass; dynamic quests for focus leaving a viewer head-tilted more confused than ever. Dawn mist lit amber saffron, sweeping streaming willowing between fern slopes. Still slopes. As still as possible.