the citrus of grapefruit stings the air
layering into the smell of shaving cream and cold morning love.
why can’t the sweetness of hindsight land on the tongue
in rhythm with the firm loving hand
brushed away while frozen by ignorance?

And if your meticulously mixed colors
and carefully articulated strokes of the brush
happen to disintegrate in the charring of a fire

what then?

Was the time spent crafting your rolling mountains of somber lunar blue
or prickly fields of mouse-housing wheat
or soaring, rumbling majesty of an unset sky
for naught?

Does one create for the
eyes or the
currency or the
back pats?

or

Is passion crafted
simply to create
in a world of destruction?

Is it true
that the poison
which drinks life away
can smell
like cheese and honey?

See,
I’m pretty deeply rooted on this small rock,
this minor island.
I can’t move.
Sure
I can gain fleeting satisfaction from docking
ships which need a repair
or wish to experience the depth of isolation.
But like the clouds
those ships pass.
And I can only wait for when
the storm or tsunami
will absorb and erase me
with hardly more than a flinch.


When that time comes
I will have been
nothing more than nothing (+x).

And here’s another religious theory:
craving the sweetness of fruitless purpose,
we hunch with our loads under the big above eye
and scurry a little faster.
Looking only up or down
-at the sky or on the ground-
and deriving no drive from our surroundings
(the universe erupting in the beauty of our limited spectrum rainbow)

funny how
even at a grinded pace
we forget about the
fingers of air that brush past our face
as we walk onward into our far-too-long lives
that end abruptly and without trace

breath in that air which,
beneath it’s sandpaper package,
fills your body with warm fumes
(which mean something).
Close your eyes and hold that image,
capture and engrave those blues in the shadow
into the folds of your soul
(no pixels needed).

stop.

in the name of filling the loose
rice paper skin of your existence,
forget the scars as well as the telescope
and savor the feeling in between the ticks of time.