Saturday, August 26, 2017

Color Storm!


Color storm! Strange to find not one
of these gust-blustering whipped
winds so lavishly imbued with hues
had any taste or scent or palpability.
They looked far too eruptively delicious

not to meet the prospect of a mouth
with some voluptuous perfection, paint
the tongue with flavor. But I could savor
running with them, ribbons, darts, bright
shafts, advancing, pirouetting, bursting

into brilliancy like fireworks or flowers –
how had I ever even vaguely entertained
what once I had been sure of: color
was a nuisance and a yawn,
a who-could-give-a-damn, no match

for other powers? And I? A man
content with tan or cream. But if this
color storm were dream, if it had not
materially brilliantly in every hue rained
on and into me as it now seemed to do,

oh let me not awake from it unstained.
Color was no yawn. Color was the whole
shebang, the only deal, the essence
and the business of the real. All there is,
is color. Color is what’s going on.




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