travel_along

the pounding red club of color
rises the sun in the morning, the
kid breaks his arm in flying off the
swing
the artist cuts open new
canvases with bristles sharp as blades, the
palette a knife, a pill a weekend
the summer squirts from a tube,
lust as juicy fruit- oil,
linseed dribbled
and boiled down to silver constancy
scorches every eye born
to the crackling metaphor, happening
on the visor,
the screen
the hand caresses in to being the
blues are a silent guitar
alive dwindled down to air- there
it
captures the moth
again and lights night in to
marigolds and vicious zinnias
in to the solid wooden
flame
turning earth to smoke
all lives revisited again-
still just a
hollow inset
driven near mad
by the language of it all,
the it though
capsules that night
that purple darkness green and
feeds to the world whole and growing
like greed love the lust of
human receiving.