I love the clothes in which I paint,
their color and design are not crafted,
instead they are evolved
cc: CC ‘22
Category: Poetry
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
Fuck China
cc: CC ‘22
Alphabet City 