Nov 26
Yellow Sweater's picture

Roots

Tradition transcends history; 
genocidal feasts 

have become something lovely. 

But what right do we have to ignore our roots, 
while we give thanks for life? 

Ritual:

turkey
and cranberry sauce,
cheers,
and cold November air.

My many-times great grandfather was a pilgrim.
And my other grandfathers were proud of their ancestry.  

The turkey doesn’t sit quite right. 
But it’s bathed in candlelight. 

Incandescence:

history rooted in a rhythm
that carries the piercing notes
as well as the soft ones. 

I am ashamed, 
but I’ll give thanks anyway. 

 
Nov 25
Yellow Sweater's picture

Jewels

I lost my pomegranate passion, 
when I found my stained lips. 

Standing naked under the rain, 
Is too whole to satisfy.  

I ache to tear myself open
and hide in the cracks. 

I lost my pomegranate passion, 
When I learned about progress. 
When I learned more efficient ways to dismember the fruit. 
When I learned the word for petrichor. 

What’s inside the sky?
Because I have already dug through the dirt, 
but my pomegranate seeds were nowhere to be found.

 
Nov 23
Yellow Sweater's picture

The Always Edge

The unconvertible have closed themselves to spring,
to dying.  

I watch the cornflowers. 

Wind and gull cries 
pull the flowers from themselves, 
until they are only blue. 

Our lips move to a Bossa Nova beat, 
 melancholy and consistent, and intracate
as we stare at the sea. 

The salt tastes sour.

 
Nov 23
Yellow Sweater's picture

Music and Me

Music trembles as it carries me. I am brittle, my many pieces buzzing. The friction of the universe contained in me. Silence and sound, grating against each other. Time and space, laughing in their cruel dance. Their song is gone. I am only whole. I am too broken to be complicated. My pattern is shattered. My music carries me. We are intolerably disparate, yet I am consumed. Music has the sense of a story, while I float without self. 

 
Nov 21
Yellow Sweater's picture

Purifying Fire

Nov 19
Yellow Sweater's picture

Complacency

I tended the small garden outside my small cottage for many years. I grew peas and poppies and rosemary. It was a nice garden. Sipping a cup of tea, my hands close to my mouth, I can smell a faint echo of the dirt that once coated my fingernails. 

I drove by my old house the other day. The thatched roof was still charmingly frumpy, but the garden was dry and tangled. It has become a wilderness, and gardens are not supposed to be wild. I miss getting dirty; I miss caring for something beautiful. I keep my Honda so terribly clean. The plastic inside shines. There is not a crumb in sight. And I suppose it goes without saying, but there are no flowers.  

I pulled into the driveway. It was instinctual. The gentle rumble of gravel was too familiar to be ordinary. I felt the sharp tug of the past as I steadied myself. I am old; even gentle bumps jarr my brittle bones. 
Nov 16
Yellow Sweater's picture

The Old Hardware Store

Before they filled it with unflappable vagabonds,
My grandparents’ house was an old hardware store.

Now it's full of salmon, paper, and coats. 

They made poetry out of the rough wood,  
and pulled poetry through the wide rain battered windows. 

The fisherman found his fish; 
The painter found her paints. 

Resting on their coffee table, 
is a well battered book: 
What is a Number? 

In a cacophony of fist banging, weed, and Neruda,
my grandparents dared to boom the smallest possible questions.

To build good soil, 
we buy our salmon local, 
we paint the sky a brilliant grey, 
and we adress even numbers with passion.
 
Nov 14
Yellow Sweater's picture

Friction

The friction of the universe 
is a subtle thing. 

Infinite tangents in a curve. 
Time and space get caught in my throat 
when I try to breath. 

There is so much infinity
in the grey sky, 
so much emptiness. 

I would tell stories, 
with faces: 
funny noses, 
smiles, 
and breath. 

But those stories always end in death.

 
Nov 11
Yellow Sweater's picture

(with the daffodils)

The impressionistic ecstasy of you in a field of flowers.

I thought you were a daffodil, a beautiful one of many, until sobbing on the pavement, I saw the truth of things. Daffodils don’t cause tears unless they are bashfully gripped. Desperate hands, delicate stems; fingernails and tender green. 

Your vague freedom broke my heart. The way you lilted in the wind. Your yellow was fleeting and full. The poppies were jealous. 

My melancholy is reflected in Monet's cloudy ponds. All the almost warm blotches are flowers, sad, soft flowers. Where are you at midnight? When the pastels have faded entirely? Where are you when I trace your shape? When my fingernails crease your almost green? 

I thought I saw you dancing (with the daffodils)


 
Nov 10
Yellow Sweater's picture

Bourgeoisie Rebellion

Fashion is ritual:
a bourgeoisie motif of rebellion,  

against our own skin, 
against the vapid notion of nothing, 
against the stifling notion of everything.

Legitimacy granted by repetition: 

God is real. 
God is real. 
God is real.

Bow ties.
Bow ties. 
Bow ties.
 

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