I was dancing with the bugs. In the sun where all things dance. In the moonlight when we, the small things, can feel the throbbing rhythm of darkness. I wasn't alive; I was dancing. Then I woke up. I had a face. My wings were beautiful. Their pattern was pleasing. My eyes were a window. My brain: me. My heart: my motor. I laughed at the bugs and their dance.
A Fairy
I was dancing with the bugs. In the sun where all things dance. In the moonlight when we, the small things, can feel the throbbing rhythm of darkness. I wasn't alive; I was dancing. Then I woke up. I had a face. My wings were beautiful. Their pattern was pleasing. My eyes were a window. My brain: me. My heart: my motor. I laughed at the bugs and their dance.
More by Yellow Sweater
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τό καλόν, τό ἀληθές, τό ἀγαθόν (Transedentals)
The woman wears her skin
like a bathrobe.
She stands in the middle
of a golden field,
weeping fresh water.
-
The Storm's Eye
The sky
blows in more snow,
a breath
from frozen elsewhere.
There is a storm
raging
inside the silent rage
of the storm,
inside God’s eye,
unopened.
-
Cubism
‘"With your pictures you apparently want to arouse in us a feeling of having to swallow rope or drink kerosene.”
– Braque to Picasso
Maybe it’s as simple as this:
Maybe God’s hundredth name is His face.
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