Shine on Beads.

"Heart beats fast. Colors and promises. How to be brave? How can I love when I'm afraid?"

So dry.

My nose lets in air,
but it's so
dissmissive,
and open,
and incorrectly spelled.

Squeeze the orange
and fill in
the cavity;
citrus brings hydration and life.
Although,
there is a slight
stinging
sensation as it goes down.

Realism is insufficient,
as is
historical accuracy.

The hourglass makes it difficult to write.

Pretend like it's going to
last
and
jot it down.
Hope in this desert.
Life in this sand.
Can I change this
reality?
Or is every switch
too costly?

Yes.
It's all too
gaudy
and
personal
for my taste.

The seventies are too far away.

Vanessa. ((

Timeline.

"And for once it might be grand to have someone understand."

Juicing the
fruit
with my teeth.
Heavy-lidded eyes.
Swallow slowly and
lick
the compass;
show me which way to go.
Gravity-filled
steps
on the dry land,
wet shoes.
A sinister violin sweeps the background away--
earthy tones
and
splashes of color.
Focus in on the future.
Maybe
the baubles will amount to naught.
Maybe
the baubles will amount to light.
I'm not a mathematician;
I wouldn't know.
The name is
effective,
though.
What are you telling us?
I couldn't tell you.
But my
educated
guess is
simply to
follow the compass.

Vanessa. ((

Five Words Are Beautiful, That's What I Say.

"You're raising these twenty-four voices, with twenty-four hearts. All of my symphonies, in twenty-four parts."

Words have been dammed up in me for a while now, and they broke out tonight. Sometimes words are beautiful because they make sense. Sometimes words are just beautiful, and they don't have to make sense.


Painting is asking on a cold February day. Is my creative gift a creation of monstrosity or of beauty? It came in unannounced-- so beautiful it's almost scary. I cried. I destroyed. Is this true? Is there no place for shelves, and organ pipes, and narratives? There's a mannequin in the corner-- exhausted by asking questions and kneeling at the cross. "Unless I die, thou canst not live." A small death on the divine image... Is it like a galaxial view of love and craters? An infusion of beauty. Now I am on the narrow path-- to die. And I fail all the time to walk it.
God provides gold for the sun just as He provides gold for the art. Strings of light, fragile as sound, trembling between the lake and the clouds. Open to journeying, I integrate and leave expression to the wind and to reconciliation. Many years later, the flavored stream flows through reality-- permeating the soil with imagination. Elusive illuminations are the tears that fall for triumph and penitence and the autumn leaves. Immersed in the temple of life, eloping with the priestess of the dark earth and of the rustling candlelight.
Weighty glass totters on the edge of summer; one push and daylight will break through. Close your eyes for just a little while longer as the icons and exit signs flash their relative meanings. The holes in shoes are a creative journey to be made, celebrated, and liberated. My bondage to decay is broken through dancing, singing, and doodling in the margins of the Holy Bible. Doodling in the margins of life.
Innocence is so easily washed away as the river of creative blood drips and swirls. In the sixteenth century, things were different. Flickering candles are devastation and four thousand pains. Faced with such a Troy, what are we to do? Dismantle the tsunami and the sneaker and the therapy. The silver is at an impasse, but conviction rings like blackberries one more time.
Ring the suit and wear the gong
one
more
time.



Vanessa. ((