Inside, there is a grey sky.
I look for a cloud
Or a streak of light,
But only find myself staring
Into that depthless void.
reproduce and replicate,
perpetuate the machine,
or use your wholeness
to sow the garden of the unknown
Permanence might be
This singular breath
Or in a lesson learned,
A tattoo, or the hopes
Of what has yet to be.
Permanence may be
The kaleidoscope of stratal memory,
The casting of thoughts
Into their rusting cages
Or into neighboring oceans.
But knowing the answer,
Would be to forget the question.
What have I been doing during breaks, free time and the occasional class since 2012? Drawing these and not posting them. So here they are thanks to the support of two people in my TEFL certification class who caught me 🙂
“Butterflying” – Feb/March 2012
“Why Am I Doing Orgo HW?” – March 2012 (context is that I majored in Genetics one or a million years ago)
“Shape of My Hand” – March 2012
“Bored” – Fall 2012
“Meditation” – August 2014
Once there was a frog who went out to buy a loaf of bread at the market. When he arrived, nineteen pianos were balancing on each other which blocked all entry through the automatic doors. The legs of the piano held the doors open but each leg was so wide that it would have been impossible for the frog to fit past them. He started to croak out of tortuous desperation for the loaf not yet in his belly. He thought about his fresh batch of fly jam waiting to be spread so generously for a snack. But nothing would change if he didn’t complain he thought, so he joined the other angry frogs marching to a bumpy tune. As the day began to close and the budding blue sky seeped with orange and violet, no orchestra or pianist returned for their honky-tonk road block.
The frog decided to see if anyone was approaching from the distance and climbed that mountain of instruments. As he ascended, the focus of his attention migrated from his aching, hollow stomach to the shrinking houses, cars and roads. He sat up on the top piano and stared out at his town, not quite sure if he was looking through his own eyes or a night-vision telescope. He watched the moon and the stars and could not think of anything original or profound to say to them.
When droplets of light flowered on the parchment sky, the frog climbed back down the tower of pianos. He jumped on the keys, reminding him of the trampolines of his youth. Finally, reaching the earth again, the frog did not glance back towards the supermarket. He went straight home and set free the flies that he had captured for his next batch of jam.
(Let me know if you have trouble reading it)
To say no at each dawn’s offer
Is to know the sky’s canvas until twilight.
How do you know?
Then why say no?
Somewhere you stop kno-ing,
And start going.
The dimples of the ties and slurs,
Keep it full and smooth,
Half-hearted flats and the sharp viewfinder,
Carve their signature of promise,
Magic as the binary colors,
Exhale heretofore unknown planets,
Unmute those frozen, dripping beads!
Do you have any honey bunk beds?
I need a honey bunk bed.
Is it a honey bunk bed?
But…this one is yellow!
No! No brown!
A honey bunk bed is what I need.
More like a pecan color.
You know what I mean.
You’re too sensitive.
That’s not how I meant it.
Why do you twist things?