We bluff the light, together, loving within the slow pull of measurable movement
Creating fragile horizons out of uncertain wavelengths
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Event Horizon
Opal Pool
The roads are so young
Where old mines have been forgotten.
They stumble through the forest
Uneven, full of ruts, washouts.
Men have come with tools
Left them, returned with better.
Implements that shine silver
Rust resistant, until rains never stop.
The goal is to cut clean, to sprinkle
Shaped earth, decorating the contours
Of river, pools, and growth.
We, the ones, who yell along trails
Echoing off ancient volcanic movements
Slip five dollars
Inside an envelope–
license plate number–
Scrawled in human–
Bleached white envelopes–
Connect with the eerie reflection
Of how we carve, paint, sing, make roads–
And yes, the art of the outhouse.
The parking lot must be made bigger
Single Use Cup
The art that surrounds me are images of images already in place
I am the one who is expected to make a decision
through them, these paintings, figurines….for they are
Copied onto permanent canvas, drawn into form, molded into judgement
Named and named again, endless titles
Serving anger and compassion, attack and defense, pride and prejudice
Stirring the swirling palette of mash ups, in the land of dances
Making me dance, full of fervor, entwined in embedded memories
For my head is a twirling history of black and white atomic bombs
John’s bloody head full of conspiracy theories and Jacqueline’s pink hat
Reagan’s red blushed cheeks and a dusty New York.
This art is frozen into me, stars stuck in my stomach, aching
I vomit up all the dried acrylics produced by the painters.
And there is enough there to make me want to love it all like a pro
For I must believe I am a lover
Even as I dry heave belief in amounts no cloud could contain
Sitting with my head near the toilet
The sound of my empty throat echoes off porcelain
Hoping the sunrise will sober me up
Yet, I will vote for you, my love. Take me.
I drink you while you’re hot, when the paint is still wet in your hands
To soothe my stomach, then toss
The single use cup where your past memories
Never decompose
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