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transformations more numerous than becomings
in front the back window which beyond
the older the house the more certain
you’d be standing in
a kitchen looking towards out
a yard and garden
is a maple named red which captures
nothing of its essence
erupting phantom crimson soul
would be insufficient if
you were one who ever watched a maple red
dance among the chore clean bubbles cutting by a kitchen window
past where floating soul unbridled
we marched yard out to turn our dripping hands
from knives to saws
pruning puckers hands
makes turds from fruits
and is the word we use to cut away the parts that we dislike
like the wild hair of faces
or the wild youth in streets
or folk living solely in the wilds of our city
we prove we are civilized by the way we shape our sights
marched i and jon and uncle rick
to open up the yard
so the sun could bleed in
my maple red had done
its reaching much too low
do not fly too low says daedalus to his son
or the earth will pull you down
to the water, trees and stones
who taught us our invention
do not abide our own
so marched we out to lop a limb
which is as simple as a thought
and incredible as a task
novice and ambitious is a recipe for
failure, destruction, learning, creativity
and the laughter of our mortal nerves when our souls realize we’re near to die
so i can’t recall laughing harder than when maple red precipitated ricky from its bough
and his body scrambled with wild frantic
caught a rope to fuck oh my god down
i discovered then an inside war in the jumble of our oh fuck fumble
of our lungs that move as if through an inside understanding of the outside air
minds move only when they are struck
so such a mix of blows cascaded on the anvil of my skull
reluctance to severe red’s swaying elegant bough
fear to witness my uncle become a crippled mass
and the hidden complexity of simple stupidity
there are butterflies in the up of trees i’ve never seen in the down
as shocking small as autumn colors in the height of summer
when a leaf gives in to drought and gives itself to fall for others
if it wasn’t for what needed be we’d be
a bother if we were brilliant before it’s time
save we glow to pause a drifting moment in the warmth upon the day
who could we say is ready
to be reminded of the cold
so much easier the thought when lifted with exuberance
paint is a cast made of the painter’s movements, a portrait of the painter’s body and thoughts. … painting is an unspoken and largely unrecognized dialogue… paint is water and stone, and it is also liquid thought.
James Elkins
