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

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