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by Joseph Immel tonight i sat down with brushes and pens and drew, repetition, with gold, silver, and red. and wanting to smoke cigarettes. i did not eat dinner; and now am hungry, and my stomach is hurting. but still i feel these colors (like a match striking). and the tension in a line. as it descends. as it holds itself like a spring. and the letters come together like a picture, like a painting, like water falling, like raindrops on a page... but then it is all tainted, and there are knots in the lines. the letters have tied themselves together. i feel the emptiness and the distance in a pen; its a ghost that slips between my fingers. find the ghost. i had an obsession, a fantasy of mountains; i am there right now, with a staff and a drum, and the poet is a gentle hill looking out of a window... looking out of a window onto stained glass. watching the spray of the waterfall, falling onto the rocks. watching the summer rain in the olive trees wondering how to speak. the red is bleeding on the page, it is the sunrise and sunset. gold gems, and the silver is the moon, it is a woman, it is a quiet mountain at nighttime. calling me. my soul sets sail. the ship is my body on the sea. ask my God for wind. |