buddha

eyes closed, the temperature has just dropped...in a bright white room, with rain-stained skylights above and the sound of water weeping placidly around a granite cube. a stairway to tibetan heaven, saints like stalagmite lollipops are illuminated by yellow lamps. colder still, there are only three colors: the kind of green that kills cancer, ancient gray, and mahogany brown. the throngs are silent, echoes are heard from the greek hallways and the chime of the elevator, always going up. strolling through a refridgerated chapel, wondering how many eyes have rested on these sleeping figures, embellished with somber garnets pressed into paper leaves.

sacred women dancing [in public], revered, mothers in meditation, a silent smile and eyes gazing inward. supplanted from holier origins, unable to take root on their sturdy pedestals, they sleep--unaware of external change.

and then, a serendipitous discovery of a massive fort on the roof. thick bamboo shooting straight up, with wild leaves still drying at the tips. knots of rope, (blue, yellow, red, green) secured at the corners, suspending bridges, steps
and fluid corridors.

french seven

she has a steady hand, blue ink, a curly seven with two horizontal lines, on the back of a crisp business card...impressive penmanship...fine motorskills in a heap at the door.

taupe and gold, magenta and cobalt, like the lake where her heart has been scattered and collected for years

wolves approach, panting from behind tall cream columns, a vampire hangout. velvet lounge, tiled floor that seems to get farther and farther away as the night wears on.

a photo booth: the first is a blur; the second, awkward familiarity; the third, forced sobriety and a stolen kiss; the fourth, a tilted + sheepish grin.

montages arise like traces of smoke: hablas espanol? yes, i used to live in cuba, not in havana, in vinales. i'm a lawyer...criminal defense. i work with bankers. and criminals. i'm an artist. unoriginal. and framed. he's in australia. i'm visiting from london, love.

one foot on the table, and one on the floor. robin's egg blue lacquered toes, ivory lips, holding court. how tall are you? all reason is banished, caged for the evening.

the black-crow-and-plaid masquerade is snuffed out with a faded french seven and dwindling numbers. a green sunrise finds a waltzed-out cinderella sleeping in the soot with a bag full of clues.

shoes + other maladies

targeted. no spool of thread to find a way back, no woman in white to lead the way.

they were left out in the rain. once pristine: now salted and stained stoic gray. canvas withered and burdened with trips to the park, down the block, the post office, the yardsale, and finally resigned to the porch. unworn, but not forgotten. resting, velcro performing as required, dark shadows cast on a bed of dirty daisies. yellowed soles, peeling rubber and a nautical line dipping beneath the imprints of two products of china. trip over these orthotic guardians to get to the door, fall into this household, past the knobless entrance, a gray abyss, empress jadis: "who has broken the spell?"

an older lucy, tiptoes past hardened teaberrys, a wreath of better days, to a stony beach of smooth river stones and melted tension. southern rock. an audio heart left unturned, it lilts past the rubber bins filled with aging tools and trowels. objects for amusement, piled high, with a view of the picnic below and a lawn that is deemed sub-par--too wild as it grows thicker, unrecognized, unruly.