2019

it was a year

It was the best of years

The worst of years

It lent itself easy to paraphrase

Call me Bartleby 

Call me anything

People just don't share their feelings

They leave them inside

So they don't catch a burning sun 

And get left alive alone for winter

Falling in love and falling apart

Picking up the pieces

In looking we find, but ever
Do we find the missing?

I wish I could see you again 

Eyes of sapphire green and pink sleeves

Eating pizza and talking of Michaelangelo 

These canned peaches 

Were really something

And I'm just left drawing the label

Light in Midnight

O Black Sun

Oh, so lay down in this morning hour,

Darkness darkest there must soon be dawn. 

O Soleil Noir, dors maintenant.

Let the Sun of day rise upon this room,

These trees, grace these walls not

With ever-present greyscale winter,

Waiting to fade loveless as love leaves

Us. Fade from my eyes Black Sun, fade. 

Leave me to fall in winter, old, broken, in tears. 

Leave me to why. Let ley lines upon my mind

Be just imagination, meanings this mortal 

Machine made, cover them in mud and moss 

But not this frost, be just driftwood

And I a fool on a beach, leave Leslie

To my memory eye, become driftwood forgetting.

In driftwood forgetting again, I go back

Into quiet, a lesser life lived if living

Is clarity and solitude. In my art I captured 

That day, the day Sun burned my mind, 

I lacquered flowers and grass that breathed

Their last in the fading hours fresh

In my impressions of love and confusion. 

I see them here, black squares of tone 

And time captured, slowly illuminated

By the morning. Their definition comes

To be as night fades unrequited. 

the history of water

Slow lumbering beast

Lurking heart 

Hidden beneath winter buffalo grass

Spring beneath the ice

Forming life

For the physical sky
there is a sacred sky
For the physical earth
there is a sacred earth
For the physical love
there is a sacred love
For the physical body
there is clay mixed with water
and you're coated in a second skin
that dries in the sun, a deep red
turns light brown, cracks
and peels, and your naked
and covered in dust, wind
bristles, wearing myth
in eternal return.

With your forefinger of your left hand
you touch your tongue and draw
an eye on your forehead
as the sun rises
and my deep voice, wordless
before your illumination,
is wordless before
your illumination.

I make sad distributions

I make sad distributions
Of property
To feed
Such things
As pieces

I make a hand of musings
For inspiration
She is distant
And it's still
Still the only thing
I can draw paint from
And so I draw
Nothing

That's the evidence
Of something