Painters’ Exhalations 151
—after
Liu Jian’s Untitled ( lg Pale Grey
The young girl
found a self
on the petite
lines
of a petal’s
discarded
wrist
where enough of its
innate, pastel scent
awaits her innocent arrival
atop a ground
whose spine
of disrepair
within a constant
pressure
to perform concrete
strength feats
of
immeasurable
renewal.
She born into a background
monotone safety of a parent’s
watching, handholding stare,
she, unaware
of a flower’s dual
identity, of
the unobvious
authored companionship
texture
now sleeping
in content
of her fingers’
massaging
walk.
Painters’ Exhalations 152
—after
Kee Tae Kim’s February 2nd
Soon, warmth,
the accolade
facilitator
of flourish,
primary color.
Now, a chilled
room of
everydayness,
ice’s hand
shows stencil
skill
atop green paper
of a
withered yard’s
chapped incline.
Light, though,
amid the cool
whisper of coming
dawn, the wrapping
conversation
requiring wool
atop skin to comprehend
its overwhelming
meaning,
or paralleling
angles of a warming
entrance, the
entrance of kind mothers
attempting hug
of their child’s joy.
The constant
thumbprint of sun’s
strongest hand,
released only by the
moon’s
shift change policy as gray
undresses into
naked shape, 26
more attempts
will mirror this
2nd day, and
boomerang will revive
its appearance
after the earth
completes its
routine revolution
on the forgotten,
upward
avenue.
Painters’ Exhalations 153
—after
Tapp Francke’s What I haven’t told you
: the writing
amid walls
of your capacious
mind,
mirroring graffiti
lesson horror
where pristine
became decapitated
quick with slicing
knives of breathing paint
: minds with
isolated populations,
the frightened
figures standing on corners
ascertaining
begging will compel only echoes
of the asking
voice
: when alone,
sprawled across the specific
math of lying
between air’s decompressing
barriers, listen
to the prose your mind
pays the ears
to acclimate to; within the
prosodic sequence
appears stairs
travelling you
from the danger caused of
harmful interpretations
of imagination’s many—
choking self
into a tightened transfer
of reliance on
illusion-voices
scratching the
back of your
unknowing throat.
Painters’ Exhalations 155
—after
Chester Arnold’s Tailings
Leaving home
never fully leaves
the body’s
abscond alone.
Reaching, the
mind reaching, the mind
away from walls
decorated with hands
leveling a life
evenly
where
catastrophe and
peace
resemble a likeness
of stepsiblings’
orchestrated
distance.
Where
the body leads
its function to boomerang
self into humdrum
back again
traveling
steps from room
to room
and eyes can
lead without the knowledge
of visual detection.
As if a tail
we’ve tucked deep into the thread of our moving forward,
we return to
the breathing space of a comfortable
understanding,
leaving what’s possible
to ascertain
our absence as an abstract
rendition of
our isolated
reflection.
Painters’ Exhalations 159
—after
Benjamin Butler’s Leafless Trees
Branches like
knives
sliced their
wind-tossed,
threadbare clothing
into invisible
attire, leaving
semblance of leaves
dangling-edged
on metaphoric branches
in the memory
of autumn’s
colorful motifs. The branches
a quivering display,
displaying unwanted
dance where musical
sirens of bird squawks
adhere to the
body’s dismembered
quality. Look, look into the defiant bodies.
The bodies naked
on the ending solstice,
reacquainting
self with a hankering of
Spring’s
seamstress,
sitting among
every trunk’s pant leg
with redesigned
designs
awaiting to reclothe,
assimilate ironic
forthcoming
warming weather.
