many canvas fantasies, legendary
souls, deep, dark, rubescent anguish.
those episodes are engrained, each
second, baptizing the chase for sanity.
we learn to paint life. we learn to
give back to life. so many brushes, paint rinsed in cooling water. I sense,
many have forgotten to dream.
I keep photo painting, inside a
pluvial flood, dealing with opaque certainty.
mother played Solitaire, looking
concerned, a novel sitting at her right side; some insoluble problem, an
appeasable anxiety, a monthly reminder of trials and tribulations.
atop the building is a terrace. we
might visit from time to soul. damming our thoughts, envious of jealousies,
palming thought-sediments. and watching what was said.
the name was on my tongue—but it
wouldn’t come forth, she said it plainly.
bronze mane. black bird eyes. a
long torso. small ears. forceful. present. delicate hands. aesthetic features. in
pumpkin-orange boots.
it kills the soul how it yearns for
esoteria—we might disappoint ourselves.
higher up—the sky veins—the rosaries,
the silent existence.
I might tailor a pinpoint—often, I feel
a pinpoint, pleased with the pain generating the motion—some might agree.
over kiwi and pineapple, we conversed,
feeling chemistry. one might be amazed at what a person will ignore—where a
spouse appears, just for the sanctity of the holiness.
the mansard is bombastic, ballistic,
touching its kernel, made ripe for the soul. the mind might need quickly, the
heart might follow quickly, or it’s felt, then meditated, searching the
countryside.
