This post is a poem, it is a photo, it is a slice of a poem and photo combined. I am a lover of art-by-intention and art-by-invention-because-of-stuff-outside-intention.
I trust you will enjoy it in its entirety and in its pieces as much as I have enjoyed creating it for you.
Spilled Adrenaline
I stepped into the concrete coffee
- - spilled adrenaline - -
my toes tapping into its brown
greyness on my walking path.
I heard the purple, cast off
water color painting which bore the brunt
of my "I hate you's!" last night say
in its appearance the day after
so much that language can't contain.
No verbage, no letter necklaces no
excess explanation.
It was more like the spilled
coffee on the concrete that
said so much more in just being
- - concrete coffee - -
The brownish painting sprouted a face,
overnight, a face borne of leftover paint.
The color "burnt sienna" or something
like that, although colors labeled
"burnt sienna" remind me of scents
made in a factory and the convenience
of cookie cutter houses - useful and
not entirely satisfying, simultaneously.
I feel the call to cocoon, not leave here,
my porch, my house.
I stay.
God sounds affirm me. Chilled air asks the
rain to fall.
So far, the only response is a black sedan,
unremarkable in shape or execution, driving
through my thoughts with its headlights
begging the darkness to keep hold
just a little bit longer.
There is satisfaction in each painting. Each
one is me, in this moment, in Bakersfield.
Intensity. Loss. Muse Fire. The 90's.
I love it. 90's. Triangles. Squares. Lines.
Fitting. Inside. Boxes. Somehow. Please.
Loss clenses leftover gunk. Authentically
leaves nothing behind. When done well,
makes leftovers beautiful.
Lessons in letters. In words. In no words.
In few words.
I stepped into the concrete coffee
- - spilled adrenaline - -
my toes tapping into its brown
greyness on my walking path.
