Purple the street
Red the light
Up the mood
Over the fight
Purple the gash
Red my heart
Up the creek
Over the start
Purple the wine
Red the drunk
Up my shirt
Over the funk
Purple the end
Red my sorrow
Up and at em
Purple the street
Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
Ever more lavish as the dusk descends
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:
Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,
A final flood of colors will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. And let faith be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.”
Faith in the hood on a rainy Friday in September. Still summer, but barely. Nobody out messing with letters with the temps so chilly and the rain so generous.
And why cry while counting the five dollar bills into my lap? They never did anything to me. And why working out in the living room? Moon-face and chin lifted, saluting the ceiling with sadness. And why with the cat and why on the mat. Always mundane, these times with the water eyes and the alone feeling and the terrible instinct underneath all the wet. That way down deep it’s all wrong. A song just slightly off tune, a misplaced bloom in December. All gone astray with no sign of right in sight.
Tomato eyes. The enigmatic meaning of their dreams.
The Adventures of Guille and Belinda and the Enigmatic Meaning of their Dreams by Alessandra Sanguinetti
|waitress:||i'm sorry we're all out of mozzarella sticks|
|waitress:||sir please stop cyring|
I click so much
My shoulder hurts
My hands begin to ache
I give them little baths
in hot water
I try to stop
I try talking to my right hand
asking it to ease back a little
I try staring at the mouse
Willing it up and down
without my finger
These don’t work either
I do it mostly for the sound
A round little heartbeat
mechanically echoing the food of my insides
A sterile plate
on which I arrange my pain
shoulder and otherwise
Is it right to feed cats cardboard crap?
and box lock them, pet their heads
Or large and clawful, raking human eyes
swallowing pupils into their cat stomachs
Giving new vision
Here’s the inside of a cat
Here’s everything you don’t see
You powerful human idiots
You think I dream in fishbowls
You think I don’t see how you gobble up everything
Singing pop tunes all the while
to real cat needs
We came from Egypt you fucking morons
We are gods
You collar and cage us
But someday you’ll pay
When the feline vengeance rains upon you
When your stupid eyes flutter open
Two futile flapping birds
careening towards a finite fate
he is a foot soldier. he is not a chicken.
Harmony Korine’s forward he wrote for Werner Herzog: A Guide for the Perplexed
The sun just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell,
And life would be all spring.
Seasons may change sign, but it’s now September and still hot as blazes. No complaints here - I love the stifling blessed Chicago heat. Just before I took this, a man ran up to it and dug his hands into the plants below, pulling out a “3” and a “1.” Restoring them to their rightful places among the rest before jaunting off on a jog around the square.