16/30

16/30
"I just let my brain rest when I paint flowers." -Renoir.

My flower is a list.
One. National Inquirer from March 21st, 2009 and my iBook G4. Seems like a synonym.
Two. I peel grape skins off with my teeth. Consider the veined opacity that remains. Make more comparisons.
Three. A very angry man yells at a window. The birds don't seem to mind.

Four. The big bang is a grapefruit seed in a bellybutton.
Five. I have trees in my lungs. Say it. Alveoli. Sounds like underwater love.
Six. A father carries the hand of his baby-girl. She wears glasses, like him, wears a bright pink winter hat. He wears her tiny matching back-pack over his shoulder.

Seven. Etiolate, I deny you sunlight. I save my memories in a peat bog. Mummify the brittle outline of your heartbeat under all these layers.
Eight. fear. home. dependency. this plane that keeps crashing in the same damn spot all the time. habits. old t-shirts you never wear. bicycle seats. balloons. the recovered bird. (Things that feel good to let go of)
Nine. A granddaughter makes her pappy sit on the stoop in the sunshine. We all love in different ways.

Ten. I fall asleep in natural prayer, my hands do not belong to a god, they hold space for an echo or for light or for a flower. my list is a flower.
Eleven. Oxidize. Lungs. They have never fully exhaled this place. My blood is heavy with the towns I've known. With these trees in my chest.
Twelve. Listen to the radiator. So full of noise. It doesn't say much. I guess it sort of sings.

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