color wheel

i screamed when I saw the patch of snowdrop blossoms peeking out of the fallow grass // when i feel the soft touch of the sun on my face i think i might melt, i think perhaps i am a bowl of water ; i am just here to water all these seeds, to watch the shadows of the tree against the pavement / to perch and watch the stems of a crocus peel its way out of the ground,, the soil thick ice melt and blanket of old leaves, warmly tucked in for a long nap, now peeking its dreary eyes out from underneath a lamplit afternoon // i am here to watch the waves through the leaves, a viridian sea / gold patches and eye treasure / a patch of daffodils climbing out of the dirt, the rolling wind of the spring coming to spread hues like a color wheel again

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richmond, virginia

aim your camera at the sky and shoot; the catch of half a corner of a building and the slice of a power line creasing the pleats of the sky ;; capital building casting four white pillars in shadow and light, ghosts of a confederacy ; bars of soap ; the trees crackle criss-crossed now as we race back north , the chill in the air reminds me of what having feet feels like ;; so many spotted windows chase the highway , white tips of chimneys and the spark of the tallest buildings that push up over the horizon like oaks , the washington monument sits like a pale toothpick across the water as a bridge takes us in to maryland // I am desperate for nothing to be possibly interpreted in the wrong way , for I have thought of nothing else for months , and I will keep thinking of nothing else / my mistakes eat at me / I will keep waiting , keep hoping // the clouds peel across the sky, soft birds today ; and all I can do is dream of spring, of finally reaching the horizon, placing my head next to it and waking up

charleston, south carolina

clitter-clatter streetway ; brick lay of perfect lines with the street lamps bouncing off ;; here, a wrought-iron balcony; here, a sloping pastel roof — here an inlet lain with green growing spines as you walk up to the doorway ;; there, the water, gliding endlessly into the shore, pattering against a line of lilac, mint and peach house fronts — a flower box, a white crown molding ;; a plaque that dates this brick and mortar — a list of old names that line the storied rows of houses, spilling light, bouncing light — sharp 5pm light that cuts through the city like a knife; that makes shadows of every framed doorway, every walking body, every ornate window — low leveled silly putty buildings where that the sky peeks over the brows and furrows of the rooftops — a canon sits in the park, the trees twist and turn above — the air hums, the folding and unfolding of old buildings stack on top of another like a set of a well-worn books ;; a bus chimes, a bird sings; the whole city an orchestra

after all this winter, i just want to stare at the sky for 3 hours, taste the air for 7 days and watch the clouds in each and every shape and hue they want to take ;; grey, now patterned white, now dollops of blue ; the sun on my face is a friendship i do not remember ; a bird calls and i talk back , swell of warm raindrops now, wildflowers growing next to a chainlink fence, ticky tack houses and white picket fences like perfect teeth ; drizzle off a rain gutter and that bird is still talking to me ;; things that are stale too, like craters dug into the earth, plastered with cement and filled with bright blue chlorine water, where we are all astronauts with no helmets ; we float and flip in juice suspension — a science experiment gone right ;; things that swarm too – like pale pink tile in the rest stop; like spinal branches speeding up to the blue sky // the birds and the branches and i, we’ll stare at the sky for 4 hours and sing the clouds to sleep,

savannah, georgia

i watched the twilight pull the first night star out of the shadow of the sky and remembered what it is to just be ; to just be a set of eyes ; now we trace down through the line of trees, past richmond, virginia; a parking lot of yellow school buses; tractors stuck in space ; mobile homes flying down the highway; a marsh, a puddle of clouds upside down ; the trees change as we scrape southwards, and the grass preens itself, glowing itself green ; now pine, now palm, now dipping through the names of these states like several constellations in a ladle


this city, a small lace skeleton of rusty bones and swinging sighs from spanish moss and ornate steel; pastel shades and ghosts; the squares dancing with each new nameplate, each strident figurine placed inside of stone ; the river laps up onto the sides of the cobblestones and the patterned bridges; laying themselves across fire brim walls — lanterns flicker (electronic now, but still the glow dances), wilting branches seem to hold highways of effortless weight on them // a porch, a finger-ful of ivy sliding up brick, the curvature of a doorknob ; city of elegance, wide streets, praline smiles, clip clop horsing feet, pecan hands, racing steamboat song tugging away at the seams of by-gone days , down the twisting stairwell, across the boulevard covered in willows, past the peeks of first blossoms, under evening bulbs, watching the moon pull a cargo boat across the specks it leaves in the twisting water ;; warm air, the smell of things growing, down where wind sits lazily in the long hanging branches, and the light tucks itself inside the space between each leaf

and what if it wouldn’t break ; what if there’s nothing to be afraid of ; what if i’m just the same // i’m not a leave-r ;; my lavender spoon is still spinning and i am sturdy as a rock, i am not flighty, i am thick with presence ;; it’s okay, i can be patient; i will be patient /// i know my brain is lying to me but i wish i could unpick my neurons from the sticky side of my skull // i wish i could tell my story, if i could tell my story i’m sure everything would be clear //

i am grateful for the dream of being able to give to others, to fall into the sky and let the world keep imagining me ; i am grateful to be able to create anything at all ;

white

ice rain, like freezing glass covering my little home; my little twirling honeycomb of wood and paint, my twisting reverie, always bundling myself like wrapped paper towards what has become a white winter ; hands like cupped eyes circling the sky, holding bits of atmosphere in my skin , remembering that down at the stream; down where the water trickles so slowly it icicles itself into a molasses embrace; down by the stacks of stones placing themselves like books upon a shelf, there is a quiet that knows only the cheek caress of firs and pines; that softly carries smoothed brown rocks from one place to another in silence // my sloshing snow feet fill themselves up with powder, i am a balloon, i am woolen and warmed by the amber glow of a fire that does not crackle but whispers heat lullabies like a dream // i am maybe winter now, cascading into white now, all buttercream eyelids and dream frosting ; folding myself into my own molasses embrace of myself, by the fire, cascading into white now

pearls upon your cheeks

you are bouncing down the street and snow is falling slowly ; so slowly you can see the lack of rhythm pressing itself against the canvas of the atmosphere / the metronome is stuck right in the center , and we are all on the edge of the earth looking at the way rain comes back down in so many pieces;; I watch the yellow green grass slowly turn white; the cold bundle itself in the trunks of trees // the bark skin grows tattoos of cream and silver ; all the pine glistens, the chopped edges of branches: an opening – our glassy consciousness now a slow motion ripple of words falling into a blanket ; you are still laughing down this empty street ; tucked into our tiny corner of the world, you do not care what I am writing, you just care about the way the flakes of snow whisker upon your eyelashes and place themselves like pearls upon your cheeks ; you laugh and gasp and grasp towards the sky ; you dig your bare hands into the freeze as if the cold was just another friend come to play // victorious with only a spoon, you are serving snow soup to all the imaginary creatures that live on an upturned rock / humming sounds and sound effects the only language you need to speak to the snow , and here, in the silence of this swollen lullaby, the snow speaks back

slow dance

rowboat of wonder, i am nothing but a tumble of tiny wishes making their way home from war, i am tucked under the sink, folded in the back pocket of a world still blazing; january sings the same song: the warm by the heater, hum under the fluorescent light, tuck inside the moon tonight, wrap yourself up by the light of the fridge, tune your brain to the chime of some electric buzz you cannot place song; race yourself backwards in time, see who finishes first, let the flame spread a little further — i can walk a little farther, i can do it. i am waiting to plant all my seeds. for now i sit and stare at the legs of this chair and admire how the cabinet sings to the tile; how the rug one day will dissolve, all my bits of skin gone with it; how the sky has only 4 moods in the winter, and none of them look like you; how heat like friction will sit inside the walls, fold its hands and dream of sleep ; how the particles outside sit still and wait , some fever dream that never breaks; the slow dance of particles twirling to a silence we cannot hear

i’ve tried to find pretty words about the past week and i just can’t / so i’ll write plain words instead — about the rain tapping on the roof right now, the curl of fake heat that blurs my cheeks apple red – the pummel of news, the shading and shaping of words, the quick click ‘off’ of the tv remote when jamie walks in the room / the weekend spent cutting a hole my house, dragging a 300lb wood stove in and working all day for it to not work, to the click and rattle of rolling about in a circle again, the pull and push of the center of gravity to tug at my over-inculcation with news, with analyses, the inability to drown myself in paint – to curve into the corners of a brush, the tip inside the edge of a wheel and just keep spinning downhill, the joy of getting to take a walk outside with mr. bush on his 70th birthday last saturday, of getting to take home some of his pottery, to place it in my cupboards, my mentor of all mentors, the gift that goes beyond all days — the hunkering of winter, the drill of any screen into my eyeballs, the hush of any quiet memory ; the twirl of a new day, or the same day that keeps repeating, inside out and sideways through