One advantage of painting over writing, there needn’t be words. Where is there writing without words? I want to read that.
The new cat changes a lot.
Big house, zero lot.
So comes here.
Our lives will never be the same.
They never were the same.
What were we doing?
Waiting for what?
It’s what we do.
How does the new cat change that?
The new cat does not appear to wait.
What are we doing if not waiting?
Wait not, want not.
Want not, think not.
Think not, wake not.
Wake not, watch not.
Watch not, pine not.
Pine not, itch not.
Itch not, cat not.
Cat not, can’t not.
I am a cat.
That I know.
The new cat changes
not that cat.
lit dimple dot
if you like green
leaves shading rust
rolling in the other way
round like a fuzzy bulb globe
plan draw lips over the peach skin
and rub speak into ink flesh until every
juice puckers sprinkle. Don’t handle or touch
this stone. Simply lean in and buss a not waltz,
like this, but first, take the pipe out of your mouth.
We’re in primary school art class, where the students have been told to draw a picture of a house.
Francine draws this:
“What’s this?” Missus Portmanteau, Francine’s art teacher, asks, pointing to the big red circle in the sky. “It looks like a big rock is about to fall on your house.”
Francine is nonplussed in the face of a teacher who doesn’t recognize the sun.
“The sun,” Francine explains.
“The sun isn’t that big,” Missus Portmanteau says, and enters a note in her red book.
The following week in art class, Francine draws this:
“Mister Sapidot [science teacher] said the sun spins,” Francine answers.
“Your sun is too big, your house too small.”
Francine feels like the rock has fallen on her house.
“Now what?” Missus Portmanteau asks.
“Someone is taking a nap,” Francine says.
Missus Portmanteau doesn’t say anything, but she makes a firm mark in her red book with a red pen.
It’s the final art class before summer vacation. Francine’s father has promised a special surprise if her report card looks good. This week, she nails the art project.
Francine has learned that to do good in school and please her father she must conform to her teacher’s view of reality.
Over at Miriam’s Well, an invitation to a haiku. And why not? As it happened, I was working on a post of pics that lacked captions, not that they needed any, but a bit of word garnish on a gallery augments the gadzooks. The haiku, posted on Miriam’s site, came in walking stride:
a long old side walk
a child’s pastel chalk drawing
blue orange bird feathers
Oh blue bird’s posit
bald caw clears scald orange glory
down green wave evening.
Oh quick bird’s message
clear and cold sweet morning wake
again post evening.
Oh to be a bird
who sings each morning sunup
and feathers sundown.
Oh drifted droop bird
lands on hand chalk covered walk
feather dust bath wash.
Oh rabbit molt moon
rises on sun’s dwilting back
enough for one day.
Oh quiet streetlamp moon
paper birds rise up to you
words fall to sidewalk.
Oh artist angel
dance brushes painterly dust
sidewalk chalk drawing.
And don’t forget to check out Miriam’s Well.