Title: The Painting of Life.
I’ll take the word of Rick Barot to start off.
Image and detail are distinct, but to what
point? To me, details are facts. The words
here, and here, and here, on your screen.
These are details. The truth of the world.
Like the temperature on that day. The
grass that was there. These are details.
The truth of that world. The image is more.
These are images. The scene I paint.
Like the silence I felt, once more
on that day. Like the emptiness of
the world that was once full. These are
images and details. The truth of the
world. And the scene I paint. These
are the words I wish you could hear
one day. Goodbye, my finest scenes.
Title: Sad Cat Poem; Meow
Meow meow meow meow meow.
Purrrr. Stretch.
Meow meow meow.
Purrr. Stretch.
Meow meow.
.
Title: Flood
People never think about how
water can turn things upside down.
The gentlest river can
rip things up, never to return again.
The water seeps into wood
cracking it at the seams.
Expanding, growing, the planks
They drink as if they were still alive.
Dust to dust, the floor has been ruined.
I spilled water everywhere.
Title: It makes no sense.
People always say to take
a leaf out of someone’s book
to mean imitation, to copy.
But this makes no sense,
why a leaf? Why a book?
Your life is a story, a book,
already, what’s a leaf
doing in there?
But twist this, let’s say
leaf also means something
looks like a leaf.
Thin and paper-like.
Like paper.
Papers are in books
so why leaves?
Please help.
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