In green times hold my hands aloft
10/01/2007 06:54 a.m.


Each time a bottle brush is touched (by raven or bee) it seems I do not appreciate enough, and so I write, sometimes I pray to the stained glass spider webs at my feet propped up against the balcony. I see nature’s anonymous effigies when the clothes sink from your hips each time a brush emerges from the bottle I do not think twice, it seems, about picking up more colour to make a red I cannot describe and cry crazily inside the room I depict or at least inside one of its small cupboards where I have lain too long still like lost keys. How to make the right shade with words? How to arrive at the right colour? In my first set, there was Love (it was red). Now there is Bottle Brush and it is the tone of unrequited desire or an old man smoking a cigarette at the bus stop. His pants are torn. There is a mythical hand on my knee waiting for me to say yes, I will. There are kitchen sounds from my neighbor that sound indistinguishable from my own, there are flowers watered by sirens, once there was a you to pull away from. Sometimes the rain tells me my window is closed, sometimes the wind, but only the sun paints me with its unflinching wrist then walks away quickly down the hill.


I am currently Blue