The way the sky blends outside my windshield,
watercolor my hand can’t replicate.
I know for I have tried. Time and again,
looking around the table in the quiet
dining room at my brushes and paper,
colors that I faithfully blended and
still, like a train missed, I find I haven’t
captured it. The damned, perfect sunset.
All I ever seem to paint. The way the
sky colors blend, the Texas Panhandle
sun steeping in the tea of late afternoon,
evening. I missed the mark again, and will
try over, some other evening. That then
I will look around my workspace and find
I missed it, looking back at the sky and
wondering why some artists can get that
perfect blend down, and I cannot, knowing
I will pick up my paintbrush again.
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought."
— Lord Alfred Tennyson, “Ulysses” (via invisibleforeigner)
Like a lotion spread thinly over cracked skin
is a revolution, burgeon a beginning
Every tear gas bomb tossed on a city street
pushes fed-up feet towards new felicity
To the last protestor on the dirty sidewalk
the mouths of the down-trodden bleed free
Truth like a lion set, on the pavement— roaming,
needing no one to defend it to be believed
Revolution is in the air. Protesto Passe Livre Brasil: Veja o que você não verá na televisão! (by PByFOOL)
On the refrigerator, as I was leaving
—you weren’t even home—
I saw it flitting in the AC breeze.
A tiny blue hand print on yellowed
construction paper. The hand was
to be evidence, that when grown,
you were indeed once small.
How shocking, the feelings, torrential waves
swelling in over me. Your 5-year-old hand
pressing paint to paper in some Sunday-school
class. The adorableness, the smallness, overwhelming
to believe, as I leave.
“Probably the only man in world football who could link a Cruyff turn and a Zidane roulette in the same fluid move, and make the combination do the damage he intended.” — Richard Williams
The way his shoulders move when he walks.
The angels that sang on the hills the night Jesus
was born, do you think they sing God’s praises
for the fine works his hands produce. They must,
for I do just that, every time I see those shoulders:
rigid, yet how they sway with each assured step.
What would Michelangelo paint if he saw how they move.
I was completely unaware of this cover
Orr was never really there.
And everyone you love today will rot in a grave
until no one alive readily remembers their name.
The summer day you stood in the back
of the auditorium, arms rested on the backs
of mildly tacky maroon-upholstered chairs.
Like a bracelet on a wrist, you were wrapt
in something in you brain. She had made a point
to suggest you as an object of my admiration.
A suggestion made simply around the fact you
had a beard. I did not expect you
to turn into a painting. No where in the
daydreams of my last math class could I have
imagined you being a significant character
in the stone etchings of my imagination. The
green grass of your parent’s yard. The way your
baby brother crinkles his nose when he laughs,
the soft way your shirts smell, a scent you
don’t even recognize, but I have memorized.
That boy in the back of the auditorium
may have ruined me to everyone.