There was loud laughter and the next thing I knew His finger was pressing me into my chair before His words rattled themselves through my studio.
….continued from the 59th Spittle: From the Wings of the Butterfly
“The lone whippoorwill has bent the dusk to darkness
singing a song so frail and true
that it bleeds tears of tar, speckled with stars,
borrowed from the many universes so very far away
that words never reach there.’
“There! Where your brush feels a peculiar tenderness
when dancing into colors and shapes
distant yet at arms length.’
“There! At the precise moment
you become the paint
the brush
and the sound of paint
pushed by the brush
across the texture of time.’
“This rhythm, you say to yourself,
is the anthem for this particular painting,
much like the sound of the mop
performed by the men of yesterday that left the space fresh and new
after that master piece be finished.’
“Yes words can be fucked with.’
“Why try to out say what’s said
when music, dance, and poetry want to be painted
when the sky wants blue,
and the strange vocabulary
of every passion endured, before the quietude of departure
spills itself out of each thought?’
“My small exactitude,
there is clarity about to spring forth in your studio.”
With that said, He turned, lifted His arms and began to sing using the voice of crickets and mice of small things and large things that inhabit the woods. He smiled and I knew His reference was indeed clear. His song filled the space with anticipation of the exhibit near at hand.
I enjoyed Him.
“The Yellow Tree” by Don Gahr
oil on wood, 22.5″x28″