ode to dali
If only living were wholly visible, from start to finish, a canvas.
Then we’d have no excuses, right?
Our pupils would shame the finest brush with their
microscopic neuromuscular strokes.
Our ventricles would splatter our blood, sweat and tears
with more entropy than any pollack
If only we didn’t have to dream up the sharp lines of color connecting
one smile with a hug with a kiss with love with lies and ultimate failure.
Qualitative analysis requires a chart.
Scatter plot to destroy our happiness.
Its no wonder our words get stuck in the web.
Our words along with our wisdom.
If only a laugh was a slender fan brush,
washing out the waves that course from
omission to deceit to subterfuge to lies to flagrant dishonesty.
She draws herself a lifeboat with a dip of hope on her right pointer finger.
It’s irridescent, The color of air.
It looks like the color of nothing to you. Ironic.
If only we could see the table turning.
Then we would recognize when we were on the other side.
Suddenly up is down, down is up, and
“right” has just left the building.
An Ode to Dali.
Memory shall always persist.
like religion. like art.
So let your tongue be the most cautious of painters.
And let your heart be the most cautious of curators.
