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.
Music and Me
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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