cars abed we will go/we prepared to sleep that night/let those others roar with all their might/we will rest under street and moon light/our rest we’ll take by the curb side/until the morning light
The bathroom door could shut properly, thank God. Though the handle had a tendency to fall off if Simon didn’t jam the two sides together a few times a day. He had lived here for, ‘what was it?’… 26 years now… yes, that long. The house was tired and a bit older than he was and he was tired alongside. Both of them were falling apart here and there. Like the doors. All the doors used to shut, firmly, keeping out out and in in. Now they hung lopsided just enough they would not shut entirely. Bits of in leaked out, and bits of out leaked in.
it is that enchanted night of the week/when trash must with the curb/meet
garbage to some and trash to others/it lays there waiting sparkling in the light of a moon/each night
tomorrow it will away hauled by green and gold to build tall mountains
of trash/amazing to behold
i looked today at a simple watercolour of a birdhouse set among broad pastel shades. I felt the painting. It touched me with an unknown emotion. When someone you know well is angry with you, the anger is felt. You might try to find the reason behind the anger, quite likely you know the genesis of the anger, but anger itself is incoherent in its essence and is felt. No words, no reason lives in the depths of anger. So too love. So too joy. So too sadness.
This painting of a birdhouse may have a reason behind its existence. Someone decided to paint a birdhouse. Was the birdhouse real? Was it a product of sheer imagination, an imagined birdhouse? Did the original, real birdhouse become imaginary? The artist had a motiviation to choose this subject, though it is another question whether that motivation was rational, at least in its birth.
But for me, i felt birdhouse painting watercolour pastel shades emotion.