All things must end and so must this series. We had three paintings and three poems. This is the last of them. It felt good to have my work displayed alongside such stunning visual art. Maybe it will happen again someday. That would be nice.
I Used to Ride Bicycles I remember bleeding on the pavement of my childhood streets, my soggy lip pinned earthward, my straggling eye looking toward sky, toward roof, toward the intimate thatching of human spectator, toward gaping wet holes of sockets and lips, toward fields of thought and folds of reality that are more right now than they were right then, toward futures that lay before me back then but before now, of colleges and sex organs and tiny fungal top hats that proclaim to show truths of divinity and do show truths of divinity and harpsichord vibrations telling things words merely offend and that tree that one time in sophomore year indented across the sun and in turn indented across me, (I think it was an Oak,) the labyrinthine avenues of my neural synapses and my brown-haired brown-eyed Maria, toward my house on the corner, toward hope of immediate respite, toward the closed-eye undulations of dream.
Rain City Stories 