Every course of action infiltrates. You measure and investigate... The gut, the instinct, and the inclination beg to differ: Oh, why wait? Struggling to remember to not be tied away meticulously and obsessively analyzing, calculating, recording until the break of day... because wads of stress are unloaded and dumped unannounced proportionally to: every devil’s advocate, self-pronounced, and ounce of presented, righteous reason. Anything goes these days. Possibilities avalanche until the landscape changes. The uglier the surface, the greater the craze and I'm still stuck circling around my neural maze. Memory recalls all the dirty details from the past obstacles while the cold flavor of beer bubbles the tongue. Probing... just to learn the limits of the self. The possibility of fun and ruckus jointly shatter the calculating source skilled at reviewing the risk of embarrassment, indirectly binding you to a chair for 10 hours a day. Let’s run through the fields before the greenery evolves into an oil-stained parking lot. Let’s run through the parking lot. Every course of action and direction is available to the boat at sea. The boat is steady, beautiful, and sturdy. The sails are white, hugging the clean air. A strong foundation supports absurdity. Here, there, nearly anywhere. Are you in love with your chair?
I swing swing swing ahead and reach for comfortable branches And I don't think twice... just as i instinctively turn when you call me by my name. and I don't think twice of all the evil of all that's capable by the twisted, human heart. Doubly hooded cobra, invisible and inaudible, but within me fangs giving always giving me vain security. May forgetfulness coil tightly around itself. This time, I am alone... wondering... are you silently calling me reverberating messages through these wooden limbs. Perhaps... an earthly extension of you? I dont know I dont know I dont know I let the question hover. Uncertainty seeps into me as I wonder: why fight the un- re- parable?
and Rothko leaned over into his pain- ting and acci- dentally let a smile out. Meanwhile... the rain dropped the temperature dropped as he (and we in the distance) tried to make ado of the facts that stood balanced on the edge of the mind... on the edge of realization... and on those corresponding cliffs (where something becomes Nothing quite abruptly) he tele- scoped his focus on... immersed until time drowned. And all little Mark could do was let go and drop down, too. Words, ideas... here is your second chance. Your only o.pt-i.on. A color-field canvas soaks in the visitors’ masks and emotions... but lacks the power of leaning over to give me any real ad- vice. November 16, 2014 12pm
May Waters began writing poetry as a supplement to painting, a way to discover how imagery can be created through the graphic representation of letters. Her work took a confessional turn and currently she is researching and branching into surrealism as a gateway to truth. You can contact her through firstname.lastname@example.org.