i’m standing in the middle of a museum. which one? not important. i’ve lost vision; everything is blurred and i feel like i’ve just been told i’m legally blind. i can’t decipher what is art and what isn’t. is this chair something i can sit on, or an antique sculpture? are the people walking around me real or some elaborate movie being projected with myself as the only real one there? how can i even be sure that i’m real? of course you are real. i tell myself you would never be considered art.
and then it hits me. her. when i looked at her, it’s like i had 20/20 all over again. she was so clear but somehow remained dream-like in such a natural way. she was more than art. she is more.
god how i’ve felt myself being ripped apart like pages out of a sketchbook everyday since i’ve met her (it’s not your fault; i’m the one who ends up burning them anyways).
I've left a part of my heart in Denver, Colorado. Four twenty somethings jumping into the the freezing lake head first from the mountain tops just to see what it's about. We counted flannels and puffy vests and tried to calculate the net worth of this place. Rooster cat opened a up a blank wall to me where I blew out my brains and left my phone number. Remember, your neighbor might be lonely. Lavender lime muffins and clouds intricately laced in patterns meant to hold the sun hostage for but an hour more as it gently strokes the broad shoulders of the 14ers backside. Without them, how do you know which way is west?
Check out the Rooster Cat Cafe and find my hand written poems in a community sketchbook.