Making underwater

My coffee cup feels empty. Like nothing, I take in fills and warms. This splif is a doorway to the empty. I am a foul on its songs. I dance slowly and then vibrates my eyes to sleep when it makes my mind dance to fast. The days are on rollerskates. The moon runs from me and the sun hides in the wind chill. The painter is a game of death. I make with the ashes of things that once had formed to make things that get to be formed. A recycler of existence. Ash to Ash and ink to paint.

 

Liquid fire in a coffee cup to burn questioning butterflies out of my belly. Standing as music booms into my ears into my bones and so the fear is danced out all over the canvas for another night. That cold creamy moon wars with me.

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