sock it to ‘em

I never know what will make them happy. I don’t get what people like. I admire the art as impact and intention, the action and the work. The breath before they belt it out, the brushwork’s grab and grind, the canvas playing catch with the palette. Art for art’s sake and so goes the serpent swallowing its tail, the ocean in the waves. Like the patchwork patterns cut from sunlight and leaf shadow, I am stamped out from inference and negative space, the notes they didn’t play keeping you up all night. The light buffeted by the wind another set of lensings, the washing of the numbers, the gravitas of the stars. A lot leans into the lap of the observer, meaning not the least of it. The words make their journey, you are the river they ride.

I sit and stare, my position my partition, another aperture built from the limits of the materials available. A vision threaded through the filters of my limits, biased by the revery of being, this not that here not there among the ten thousand acts and laws. Every sense and de facto sentience shuffled through stacks of schema, shapes and the luckless incarnationed and a dance of tongue and rhyme. To be here is to miss the most of it. There is nothing to it, the everything that matters. The statistics will bear me out, here in the innumerable once offs.

This is the strike across the sky, the indulgence of subtle color, the weight of the atmosphere at the changing of the guard. This is the heart pleading, blood lapping up the breath, this bead woven into the restless ribbon of the spirit. Doses of dirt and sun, dregs of dark partings and blasphemous elixirs, the agreement all fine print below this ever imminent exclamation point. Stuck between the being and the mystery, strung along the daisy chained words, crowning the imminent whim I encompass I sit and stare. The becoming moon lit and laden in the shift of sky between tree and eaves, I trail smoke and moments into the forever of a sullen dusk.