Summer is loading full
             just one bit more
                     London is On!

Busy bus only 20 miles
           per hour
      tube  it
take the underground!

Meet down the various clouds
               though the sun oft
     picks on the gray paintbrush
the bumble bees fly on bright path
       daffodils are yellow
                   eyes are black and white.

The colour plate is full
                     down the cloud
                          go by underground!

how do you paint water, or clouds?

I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love, and streams of water,
never stilled, always running in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds, admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting, like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes or their spoken words
could capture their shiny white foamy essence

But of love, that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently to its burial sight in a quiet pond.

Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies: the
exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water, who could paint that, who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I cannot. Thankfully better men and women have treatised  their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just  like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study and stare at these flows, hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.

Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne , rocketing us upwards while feet never budging, but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.


2:58AM
Friday
jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.


O.L.P.

Hey you Master Artist!
Could you paint beer's taste?
When you’re eating pizza,
Could you paint its smell?
As an expert painter,
Why not saying: Yes!?
     Dear Master Artist!
Is there any brush
To save painters’ face?
Charcoal, pencil, crayon
Which is more fresher
Than your blood, than your tears?
Papers aren’t unique
When your body’s alive
       Darling Master Artist!
Pay your skills’ price
Then paint the town red!

Painted it in the deep
dark night.
Still, it's the moon
of zillions of stars!

Come May. Come what may.
The most significant thing today
first Monday in May
my wife six months pregnant with twins
says she’s scared what we’re getting ourselves into.
Like the time I moved into an apartment uptown
I mean way uptown, Bronx uptown, uptown
where I’d never been
bomba echoing in the airshaft
painted the walls banana yellow and moved out the next day.
Lost the deposit.
A few months later moved back to the same neighborhood,
stayed a decade.
I’m not—scared, that is—but they’re not kicking my insides out, either.

Blank walls, spackled
And clean, yet empty.
Stretch out your weary arms;
Feel the numbness in your fingers.
A can of paint, a brush, and a pan -
Colors bleeding from the shape of your mind.

Take a deep breath,
Feet flat on the ground,
And open your eyes.
You can remake yourself.
Paint the walls.


Blank walls, spackled.