When it was all over, I looked at the dot with a tail curling on the inside of my wrist.
“Why did you want a comma?” the artist asked, cleaning their tools….
Art
the eyebrows and the eyelashes
are out of order,
the moon is pock-marked,
I’m standing on a tilting plane…
it’s so loud, I can’t hear everything
at once, the yellow is thrumming, insisting…
I, too, paint sunflowers.
Color dances in the light, …
I once figured out, a four step process, for making art…
Magritte speaks to me,
even when I can’t make out the words…
Art changes, from that thing you do for yourself, into a task you commit to…
Inertia drags hard, even if it brings you joy, because opening the floodgates…
How does one follow
the sun to survive…
Paint everywhere,
strokes here and there and everywhere,
with no apparent care of thought…
Daily Poets 