The rain lilts with the wind. You pound the piano keys with ferocity, as if challenging the storm to steal your notes. You look up, penitrating the thick glass of the window with your proud eyes. I see you watching everything fall. You wish it would fall straight, with honor, instead of thrashing to the tune of the weather. Your music has passion, but you wear a terrible mask. It’s the mask of someone fighting against their own face. How can you play something that precise with so much power? I beg you; don’t lilt with the rain. Pound on! Steady and solid. The storm, strong as it is, will never be your own.
Refusal
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.
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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.
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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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