It’s 4:30 am. Not sure why I’m up but I don’t fight it. I decide my colors for today will be lavender and midnight blue. I pull on my black leather jacket. For breakfast, something creamy and green. Matcha tea. Color is what drives me, every day. What gets me going, what wakes me. And the quality of light, and the character of light, on the color.
There’s form – lines, shapes, relationships, concepts – and there’s words. But first there is color.
First there are flowers. And then there is the street. First there are the lime-green trees, the terra-cotta tile, the wrought-iron chairs. And then there is the parking lot. And then there are the words.
The words for these roots of existence.
I’ll wander over to Peet’s, the first place that will be open.
I decide not to write, I mean not to edit something more serious. Thinking is tiring sometimes. I want to do something simple right now. Something easy.
Spanish classical guitar music. This is life, real life. Life is passion to the core. We’ll never truly give it up with age, as the myth goes. But we can pretend. We are free to create our own tragedy.
This why we need poetry. This is why beauty exists. Life is passion.
To the core. It’s the one thing you’ll never forget.
I step out into the dark, the first light just peering through.
The earrings I wore
like tiny weapons
Off the shine
Like sunrises flash
Through the curious
Peaks of your
Clear eyes crossing
The table. Summer glows
Off weeds outside, drills
the roots in so deep.
Our history envelopes
One glance, gone
We share a glass house heart.
A new sap trails off peaks we’ve been.
Sofrito and crème fraîche fall
Over thick red meat
And we saw something there
Really worth drowning for, then you
Face south. Like curtains dropping
Over a river, eyes
At the border of beef. Each cut
Slowly sawn I watch. Edgily
Feeling it out. Then,
Without saying anything, you
And took off the checkered