This was drawn during birth.


Drawn while you were on the toilet, drawn before (ie in front of) the dictionary, rubbed on the wall as you made dinner, pressed in my arm when there was nothing else, drawn even though, and while you were making narrative (something to follow through); this is the story of the lines between already there.

We searched for god, found him full of grace, ourselves full of more, and less; this is the story of how we followed each parent towards death, wondering and fearing, creating out of ignorance, sickness and cancer- which is all art, our ignorance, our attempt, our failed success, many big words for the caterpillar to take a chunk from. This is the story of me, liver and innards but bloated, slugs rasping the leaf, trying to find something more intricate than what is seen, made, understood. Nothing but a big mistake made bright through attempt. This is the story of you, a person full, systemic in capillary, artery, platelets, and firings or fire or fury, a being cubed within spirit.

This is the story: a girl holds on tight to the vines and sees herself flying, she holds tight to the tethers, she goes down to the brightlit store in an attempt to find yellow goggles to fly with, and white crispy sheets to land upon. She dreams of a family, of little blushes, of people constantly making around her through the advent of their passage through time, and this happens. But everything is a surpise. One person finds wisdom through love; the Other reaches for a knob that might lead that direction, but finds herself locked with other doors wide as a sky in telefocus.

This is the story of where we are. Don't worry, we are all humble. And while I trot the lives I want to despise, you prance the lives of desire. It's where we are, because crayons are strange and unique and no less than where we were before. They are full of electricity, and immobility. Pigment but a mode of reflection.

Gas prices skyrocket and you and I search for Buddha, looking for the longest ears on the subway or road in hopes that these lobes might reveal a meditative ease erasing everything distressing until it becomes an anorexic plate of salvation. But paths don't reveal themselves; they are only something walked upon.

In my dreams, story chastises me. It tells me something: here is a cherry, red and completely contained. Sitting upon a white space of moss and mold. The dream lets me see this, then it lets a girl approach. This, it says, is story: a girl walking towards a red cherry resting on a pate of white fuzz. Describe it, describe the path, and you are halfway there. Why do you fight, it asks. Why do you avoid time?

Hell, I don't know, but all I want to do is speak what we feel about the cherry, sitting there, a little mouth unspoken, a creature full of exposition and sentiment.

Nobody understands anything through exposition. I am resisting here in my state of optimistic obstinancy. I go to land and stand sullen before. How wrong it is to ask for a heart, a mind, a home. Without a specific reason, Oz has no red poppies, only wretched monkeys with wings. I draw my colors, sun-hidden along the stomach, open depth along the surface.


There are more systems than I have found.