xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxto Brian Shields
Little blues smudging browns,
parroty flitters in the shadows:
xxxxxxa studio mentality is suspected,
a swim in substance without a back,
xxxxxon the wild side of nomadic narrative.
xxxHeigh ho, Joan, heigh ho, Cy,
allow us to walk with you thru landscapes squiggling in the light,
xxup your color cliffs,
like the tiny figures in King Lear
who cling to impasto while harvesting samphire, which smells of the day
when color first emptied its buckets onto the world.
We begin dirty, don’xxt we, loves,
hoisted out of the organs’xx slick
xxxxxxxand washed shiny, like a raddish;
but itxx’s the greasy kisses you love,
xxthat I love that you love.
xxxxxxxxHow swell you are:
not for you a mastiff and beat-up red gas can in the back of a pickup;
not for you empiricism’xxs virile bench press, like US troops arriving in Iraq.
xxxxSquarely you face toward the blast that got us here
xxxxxxxxxxin a perfect offence to reason –
something unthinkably small that could hold it in no more,
xxxxxxall that feeling, that itch to be extra,
the provocation that made Hildegard babble ofx “purple lightning”
xxxxxxand van Gogh poke the world’’xxs eye with a yellow stick.
Confetti, confetti, confetti, then, to the color vanguard,
their palettes of juices, their color hypotheses
that challenge the transparency of tears.