1 a.m. poetry, because.

And like smoke
a horse's form
was born.

speeding like a shot
through the gulfing spaces
that threaten to swallow up everything around them,
that reach out greedily
and caress what is near
with a sly grin and vacuous motives.

who knows why we do what we do
that question is not a question,
after all.

look closely, but don't forget
that existence exists, on the far reaches.
it is all around you,
(endlessly)
peripheral and embedded.

be your own reason.
live as the wide open spaces,
and let the connections take their tenuous hold.

because we can all feel it-
what is wild can be tamed

Giffy goodness.

take your forms wrestled from the void and get the hell out

So... Wayne White!

Is weird. 
And even though something inside compels me to flee from his paintings, there is something creepy and mysterious that draws me in. Some favorites:

The power of words, and art born from other art.

Beautiful friend, the end

Maybe it's that we broke up at the House of Blues. Maybe it's that St. Vincent sang the line "i don't wanna be a cheerleader no more..." that night. Maybe it's that none of our orchids bloomed this year, for the first time ever. (well, one did, but upon closer inspection the spike was infested with aphids and didn't stand a chance.) Maybe it's that everything we owned was covered in dust. Maybe it's that i never could finish the puzzle you got me for Valentine's Day (Klimt's "The Kiss"); it became too difficult, at the end, to figure out where the last of the pieces fit together. i tried and tried, and failed consistently. In the end, one of the puzzle's corners fell off the coffee table and i haven't been able to bring myself to pick up the pieces and just put the whole thing back in the box.
Should i finish it? Time will tell.

A long time.

That perfect time of day when the streelights cast shadows on walls still faintly glowing with daylight. It is blue, and dim, and dark. But there is light, and soft silhouettes because. There is a man drinking a beer alone at the barbecue, making himself dinner. Two guys play video games in their bachelor pad, as they have, every night, for years. A family clinks a loud dinner together in their kitchen, and i can faintly hear "A Message To You, Rudy" horning its way across from somewhere, through the courtyard's wide open space and into my ears. The young kids who just moved into their first apartment are dancing with friends. Wood doves fly with their adorable difficulty from tree to tree, forever calling out their sounds. And fucking melancholy. It is so tiresome, yet so marvelously familiar. Are we here? Am i there?