taste

2003-09-18, 9:59 p.m.

nwo teh clock is ticking, silent like each sylable i test on the tip of my tongue. the wall is a good teacher, stoic, chameleon to the sun, its purpose is hidden behinf my paintings.

my purpose is hidden in between shades of doubt, ambiguity, and pangs of guilt for dragging friends in the dirt, although i never meant to. im waking up with no first thoughts, no eye crust, just exploding fragments, shrapnel that cuts into my brain, reminding me what i saw with eyes wide shut.

you could smile, the words, the symphonies, they continue. the automatic piano reads holy rolls of sheet music, bar fights rage like with no clear begin or end. and the ice adheres to my finger tips, when you have jammed your fist into the snow, a thump and chill up your spine, the bits that were severed from the white landscape writh, spin, seek their original place; melting bodies.

i dont know how the snow appears to me, in this sunny california morning (a fisherman could smell the sea air from here). something about the fogged sliding glass, with lines that form stalagmites; something underneath waiting for the sun to reflect; some pattern to the chaos; those drips, adorning the clear with strands of multicolored pearls. i am searching, but not seeing, estoy mirando, pero no la veo