White Rose in a Tumbler

White Rose in a Tumbler by Piet Mondrian

i. glass Oceans spawned intentions of silica Messy grains of crumpled cyrstals Make me missile, make me fissile! Making ripples with our submarinal whines! And we took them and we shook them and we rolled them around! Our scraping surfing churned into salinity ground! Liquid bowels that blew us out sputtering we stuttered our mouths, roasted in the light and infinitely alone with our fellows, the good hearted brethren, the sisterhood the old men and women, all of their souls ripe and beatified all saints that filled the heavens unsatisfied, waiting and waiting . . . Thank-God we were found! Delivered, crushed and bled bones rarified, sifted, transformed, reborn into fire the smelter merged and joined the holy union the bliss bubbling us together We are no more but I am. I drift, awaiting my mold, a purpose, a verb, a process a cooling down from halide hot waxing a fever, the flippering fade that shivers me cold and no longer formless. Cold, but not hopeless Cold and asleep to the sound I will make. When I find what I seek. I won’t be broken. Cold, stiff and rigid and fearless - not heartless, but patient and certain - and destined for something to save, to preserve. I am arrogant with the touch I was given, the souls that were driven hot and now frozen, and relentlessly, translucently shown to behold, but in submission humbly, humbly, humbly I pray for my renown. I pray for my resurrection. I pray, but I also listen for my renown to become to end to be crystallized again. ii. rosebushes in the garden We spike, a hundred poles shorn; thorn mesas that bled, that were freed, that were led to our grief. The air once warm, now a frost dying. We are dead now in all but name. Lost are the virtues that fed us, that entertained the mystery of sustenance. A wet spirit drenching us, blessed with sun and the big blue and the ball that we worshipped, now occluded gone in the grayness, gone in the cold damp wet that buries our misery with winter’s mist, clouds sanity with solitude. We weep, anxious and still hearing the last of our children’s cries at the cutting, the separation, the end of creation. We weep without blood, without tears, at the evil we fear, the devastation of growth. iii. tap water warm energy flows into me and then is stopped filling me incompletely with your fluid touch now but ripples across my bare red blotches my ribs pressed under your heaviness our raspy breathing the sound and feeling each single drip drip drip from the end of your tap iv. artist in the moment not white not white not white but white not white but white and brown mustard brown mustard brown mustard background but not white not silver not white not silver but LAVENDER!!! i am a genius but you LORD you did that you made me elite yes the elite the genius yes lavender lavender lavender but white call it white though call it that call it white