My tablecloth has sunflowers on it; five big ones, bright against the dull white background. When I look at them I feel a strange sense of disquiet. I want to stand on my chair and scream at the blue sky and crunch loudly as I eat my toast. Sunflowers defy. They are too large and unwieldy for their thin stems. They are for days without bounds: no clouds, only a horizon to hold you in.
Screaming Sunflowers
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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