Not-Dev-Art

sweet swell of ocean waves in front of my boarded up childhood home reminded me sometimes of the estuaries back east a mix of clear and calm with hint of salt water creating taffy on my tongue as i inhaled exhale of expectations turn flower into weeds and saplings into kindling – igniting the boarded up home with a spray of sea salt the green flames turning a plot of a memory against the sweet swell of the sea into a mirrored image of blue and green

The sun nips memories back & forth, blinking through the early 7am fog that’s crawling way across Interstate 5 early morning rush hour the only entitiy as languid as the fog itself memories of an airport long since visited – golden sun on plane wingtips the sun nips memories back & forth hiding lazily behind fed evergreen trees on the tops of the cascades memories of tautly laced boots against warm hiking socks a creek so shallow even the river rocks gasped for water like koi the sun nips memories back & forth lost soul flipping through the found pages of ‘God’s Handbook’ a little misspoken sometimes nipping

My emotions are colors; On good days, the gloriest of greens and when I’m with you, the babiest of blues My emotions are colors of a vibrant hot air balloon against a dark, winding sky, each let off of air brings it down slower and slower   …   and slower But on bad days my colored emotions are green and blue –  orange with the lost feeling of not having you beside me – knuckle-white pink of my anxiety I feel every day a fox’ jaw around my neck and I  …  the rabbit All these colors, on my bad days are just a painter’s left over water running down the drain

Our street, Shine Drive, 's dull as my sister's damaged earrings the Puget sound sighs along the haphazard open sore murmuring to pedestrians, attending ghost walks if I were four again I could smell the spirits but as it is the Puget Sound has a drawl and I couldn't listen unless I closed my eyes our hilltop cemetery generates visitors flesh, and dead my mother mumbles about the mist settling noisily amongst the moss covered gravestones her voice struggles to be heard through the thick fog wiry, and coarse, like our Wolfhound's gray fur who died last December fog not as thick as we thought lying, lifting to the lean tops of the fat Evergree