Art Studio

In search of family, the little one geared up in preparation. She had her mind set on looking for

family via the top of a mountain, thinking she could see all her options more clearly. She found a

nice bag with two straps, for her back. She made a bowl of rice with mushrooms, sauce, and

ground meat for the trip. And then there were veggies. And then there were eggs. And then

there were chickens and cats and dogs on leashes. The leashes were cut and all dogs,

chickens, and cats led the way in a searching caravan. “Up the mountain,” she said. So the

chickens walked fast. The cats built the path. The dogs foresaw the past. the little one walked

with bare feet, and was fed. It took two weeks to build the mountain, as it was built as she

climbed. The rivers glued it together. Like roots, the caves within made it glorious. The

foundation beneath the mountain was first stone, then moss, then bugs, and finally bird

feathers. And when they all reached the top of the mountain, a water mattress emerged from

the earth for the young one to lie upon.

She then heard a melody. It came on the wind, through the trees, and over the hills. And so she

sang along, and named it: banshee melody on the wind, through the trees, over the hills.

Who is that ringing me, singing -

bringing me, woe and not giving

me? Deserted me this understanding,

where I can only listen thee?

Forget it, heavenly.

You will not tempt me.

But you seem so lonely.

Angry, and so close to me

in similarity.

I am raging, engaging,

and serene with tiny

explosivity. The skies, the electricity.

This fire-scape proves to be fit for bouncy intensity.

Indeed, I will take this chance to confer with myself

in terms of a message to you, the conifer. Considering fire.

Are you talking to me directly, oh fire?

Or do you rage for anyone to hear?

Thank you for your beliefs,

kind siren of destruction.

You, atop the mountain, are a comfort.

Your tears moisten and protect the earth that has accepted you,

while the dry earth, in proximity, that has not known you, perishes.

The dry earth, in its beauty, perishes in order to become enriched in a new way.

It is birthed with a new suit

with cones as ears and its large opening facing you,

itself facing you, it is now ready to take in your word.

The time it took to burn down

the dry brush was long,

but it was dry. But it was dry because why? Your cry.

It did not recognize you in its desperate

form of progression.

Good grief -

which path am I?

Leave it to me to lay it all out.

I’ve designed all of my paths.

But which to choose?

A hole opens up beneath me,

a third path. Falling, I feel relieved.

I did not have to choose. Still falling.

Still falling.

Daylight raucous, I see light above me, still.

The opening widens as I fall further,

and my upward view has been looking the same for some minutes, now.

2 -

Welcome to the game.

A man with a face built of scaffolding greets you. He is a floating head, mostly, and big curls,

ears, and hair made of spirals. His eyes are big earthen beads in a milky pool. The game, he

says, is the pain of the lane. Follow the lane, and you will remain. Follow the train, and you are

flat game. Follow the rain, and you are untame. But do depart, in order for gain. Wild woman, I

am you, as the man with the face built of scaffolding. In my face is the structure of you. I was

made in your image, a blessing untrue. Aspirations, and paintings of blue. I sing to the night, the

moon, and my deranged sense of you. You scare me, but I am forever in debt to you. Take my

hand, in gameland green, unplanned. Let me be the wild woman, too.

Gameland, the green grassy fields of difficulty

built for pleasure. Technical green pastures,

A playground of learning awaits. Do you want to feel

cold as you learn? Does stillness in cold make it true?

Hot breeze. Do you want companionship?

Where are you? The rigor of progression

is subtle, like growth at the rate of change, hot air.

Disengaged, once again.

Come with me.

He takes my hand

without touch.

He takes my hand without touch,

He’s no longer a man made

of scaffolding and curls.

Now, he is a walking forest.

I walk within him and as my feet sink deeper,

the forest is reversed. All green turns red,

I am led by the smells of fire. I am cold, by choice.

She as the green turns red,

the fire arrives and I can clearly see that it

is actually the blood of dogs that brings back the forest.

Pulsing through the leaves and trees

as the man walks, the fire sheds seed for life.

Like leaves, the departure, green becomes red.

But not through consumption, but

instead as a replacement of green in your head.

And it just so happens that red has been hot.

From the top of the mountain,

Listen River whispers to me.

O, Listen River, you are telling me something.

Your voice is as loud as the rain in a rage.

In your rage, I forget.

I drop all else, and I consider your plea.

Your plea is for me to listen to ze.

A force, a girl, a loving complete.

Walking away from you is difficult.

At the top of the mountain, I feel full

of spring tea. Your rage in my bottle,

a joyous sweet treat.