Palate primer

Like a child that has yet to learn
           that accidents can be
                   on purposes,
                                       I follow
                                       that low
                           blue moonlight
            unafraid of indigo
                                   -as though
         a new color could be
         awaiting me
           any new born night
           just
                 such as this one
                 of many.

Casus belli

It tasted yellow.

Woke up with it . Had to put it together.

Same as artificial light, that blaring first horn,

TAPS and organs now must stand up

to gravity, though the deaftone stomach resists this

verticality nestled in leaden refusal to churn over.

When focus comes on strong, this tangible sting,

bite of blink and swallow, is pointed.

And knowing the acid brewing

is not best for breakfast-as a rule-

according to the orange juice

and strong brown coffee,

I am delusional.

They rest their cases. The resting still,

they are bloodthirsty, at the ready,

palms rubbing, rabid from a distance,

the young smoking.

Look at the mess they made last night.

They are poking around for War.

It will be found. Instigators have a chronic itch.

Admixture to weak sauce with whatever 

is lying around.

And all make green, except mine, faintly

in flesh tones and tossed in peach stones.

   

A tree, like bravery, builds itself up slow

like this gathered heart, low and labored.

Rather not swallow.

The blue early bird, first notices me;

gorging on gravel and gathering sticks

to replace broken bones, he does not blink back.

I think could never forget what the birds taught me,

this was no dream,

the heart still beats itself

without a body,

And I throw up 

this empty stomach. 

Image credit By Sol Horn (4/1939) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

this bliss

Not uncommonly,
They may ask of you,
to look around-

Take in the view,

as it were,

but it is best to leave it out.

In cases when told

This is the way it is done,

one need not rush toward the end.

And if casually asked to share your secrets

be willing to concede

the bigger half will be theirs.

Often they say They have been there

and done just that, you know

not that same annual vacation-exactly.

Repeatedly
They always say-They hear you,

it would have happened

either way-as if unaffected by choices
made either way.

Finally,

They have never seen you look this way-

Has something changed?

This acceptance,

This silence,

This resolution,

This endurance,

You have never seen this

on me, is it new?

I guess,

I call it Bliss.


Painting by John Melhuish Strudwick (1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Photo-graphic memory

Obsessed with photo graphs and charts,
we point our longest sideways glance right
away
and shoot for the best, hitting hope
happens square in the chest,
stars also aim for the numbers.

Numbness by position,
this poison saps our steady grip,
an aching up the arm from the aorta.

In this contraction,
we miss the moment around the image,
the time between sight and capture
or full appearance formed
in our human haste

Roughly,
to see and to show how it should look
from our island view,
by entitling
what was then as now.

The pictures portrayed only figures,
we made out images
believing in lines like these
holding black and were definitive
made by an arrangement or
juxtapositioning.

Framed in theoretical suspension
of time to believe in what we see
as all white.



Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Miss Agnes Martin

And Agnes spoke.

After all she had seen 

                            and failed to portray accurately

“It seems to me, I am a greater destroyer than creator.”

The inspiration more reverent in potential than intellect

She suffered it seems.

The quiet part 

                                 a-part 

from the living with her art.

Agnes assembled some reason,

with color and line, like us, listening for the tone.

A message was delivered via postage stamp imagery, 

she found this in the box with the red flag

                                           too tiny to see.

So she was required to extrapolate 

and re-scale 

to make larger

than the letter

addressed to Resident.

Perfection, as though always made the same-

This one template mistranslated 

                                                 in the corners.

The migration from idea to ideal,

lost in most blending, space, silence, room, makes too much

semblance, geometrically so much more than medium.

All that

depends upon a nail, a red wheelbarrow and leaf capacity and

a multiplicity of task or cause.

Yes, Agnes knew her arithmetic.

And Agnes tried to forget rules, axioms, theorems

and the half charged radii she never saw as encompassing.

Less can be greater than

too much inspiration.

Agnes said the envelope was empty

but she received the message.

I know, I sent it. 

VP

This is how we Do,

This is how we Don’t

                in this

                house

             -of Poetry-

An atria lets in light

& emits extra 

pillowed noise.

It is the vanishing point

we should be focusing on,

imprecise lengths and indivisibility,

where dreams

during the day dull too acute states.

First, it was

the writers fork,

sourceless drops on the forehead,

all the hand stains, bruises,

and finally settled in the wrist vein, 

sharply-

no longer embedded 

in the life line.

Do this-concentrate-

Indirectly, gather all the colors if you can,

hone in on these speculative gradients,

Do not notice this indifference, it may be

that you see succinctly

how beautifully

                         -all points vanish...

Image credit Tenshō Shūbun [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

community pool (Haiku)

The hungry hippo

does not roar but weights a round
edges to blend in.

Photo credit By Don Juan, Comte de Montizón (1822 - 1887) Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.