Alphabet City

I cleanse my palette of all its yellow,
so my blue-skies don't turn green

cc: CC '22

I love the clothes in which I paint, 
their color and design are not crafted, 
instead they are evolved

cc: CC ‘22

Push the bead of color to render the sky wash

cc: CC ‘22

The swing is sound,
the rope secure,
my concern is for
the branch

cc: CC '22

The wrought-iron fire escapes
Z the front of the tenement facades,
their shadows hard in the city sun,
prison bars across aged red brick,
the soft billow outward of cotton sheer
curtains in the open windows, someone
cooking fish in the heat, hot oil and breading
spreading to the upper floors on a waft,
a breeze with upward-eyes, to a blue
not reflected below, where dreams are 
more wispy than clouds overhead,
more daring than jumps between rooftops,
where a plummet is sometimes a blessing,
to fall precedes the pride

cc: CC '22

To the smallest of gnats
accidentally pressed between pages,
from my leafing through musical scores outdoors:

I apologize

...and am happy, incredulous,
joyous that you are yet alive

cc: CC '22

She's an older vintage,
a higher proof, a greater
kick

She embodies the blessed
which is her, a mass
to be reckoned

Aloof for only so long,
she warms, then melts,
till she boils over

Lithe, supple, 
a quiver of pulsing arrows
atop the archer's body

Represses ecstasy,
the moan not uttered, 
just at the tip of the tongue

I sip gently of her,
inhale the spirits,
relish the kick

cc: CC '22

Her cookie tray is always out,
she decarboxylates a lot

cc: CC '22

I take a warm cloth
to the soles of her feet

I wash away the weary

cc: CC '22

I wear the same 
shirt inside-out 
every other day

cc: CC '22