Between Blue and Yellow is 003300

Such is the endless snow, equestrian in its desire to roam. Fields with manes, hooves; kicking.

I would like to know. If you asked, I'd say I'd like to know. All splendor, white with morbid yellow, full of studious obsession, boundless candy rappers (Twix or Whatnot). If you were to ask, I'd say I daily imagine a dome stretching across, contours tremendous blurred; within, a paddle and hold, dipping, hold, aligning, surrounded by potential blue. If nothing else, if you'd ask, I'd say I desire this blur and its tortured indiscriminate. Periodic sentences, structures like Absalom, slain and rejected and like a lone scarf drifted from some neck into the gutter. That is, if you were to ask, I'd say the only landscape unexplored.

That was a sentence unfinished.
That was a sentence.
What was a sentence without?

Humility is the dog I saw drawn, by chain, to his death by several dives of the hatchet, in a foreign place.
Joy is the dog I saw yesterday. I named him Not Yesterday.

I only ever meant to climb trees.

Self-Portrait


Hi. I. Yellow. Resume... Imagine resume. No, curriculum vitae. Hi. I. So want.

My father used to draw me upon flat fields of snow upon a two-pronged sled in cold, and if you were to ask, I'd say I always imagined being self-sufficient, rich and desirable in infinite experience, research, traditional.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I intrude and disrupt? Did I change the course? Do you all love me? Oh, am I in the way? Was that not what you meant? Too arrogant, not needed? Am I a symbol? Is everything about my skin hyperbolic?

I know. I know."

Surrounding my reflection are a million empty pates, and for this I.

Portrait



When I read, I read for coherence. For continuity. Poetry is a humbug. I'd rather read a long walk down the street with a wishbah for a beard. I'd rather hear about daily blather and refined immigration than a mind twining itself aloft. Thus, I'd rather have nothing to do with my own mind, and everything to do with yours. Perhaps we read linear as prayer for the stories and myths we'd build by. Unfortunately, my mind is only occasionally whole, but for the most part moreover and then she said.

Divided. Hole.


On the thirtieth of April, 1576, a small band of women broke awake from their husbands and ventured to set up camp on thin Pyrenee hills. The wind fierce during winter, turning the draft a pale form of yellow. Horses and goats occasionally nattered by-the-by and one 'widowed' woman awoke each morning to find her voice levitating within the tent she shared with her friend.

She thought of kissing her friend at times, but loved her too much. Couldn't lose her, couldn't risk, couldn't accept less than perfect return, couldn't get past their differences, but mostly couldn't lose. Though she saw past the dish and the spoon.

So she woke up on the 27th of May, 1578, and looked over through the land of her breath to watch her friend breathe in sleep and all the infantile world lived in, the horses and goats outside, aligning themselves upon broken yet perfect posts. She washed her hand through the air, stood up, accepted the limitations, and started a small then medium fire going in the fire-pit outside. Before long, all the other women joined her, and she noticed in their walk how women past thirty become so alone, they virgin birth. Men of course have learned to loneliness but women find even greater abandon.

One woman, she saw, had lost everything, and so made a carnival within her liver. Rollicking, she said, rolling and the most beautiful sight, she said, was the sound of wind over feldspar half-removed from the turf.

City, this City, What Stays in the City, You Know?




The lights something within the round hemisphere that seems within the days of each day, the past three years. I am leaving this Chicago in my head, even as I live here. I am flirting with her, although I leave for water and green alone. I am already with my family, and it is odd to still be here. I'm glad I stayed to know, but every day seems almost a waste. Waste of course meaning so many words about where I've already been.

If you were to ask, I'd say I'm almost happy, rather, but undefined, full of tomorrow. And longing past the lunar ice of Lake Michigan, so incredible and broken, white, vast, something that split within the winter.