piano solo

“Give me the simple life…”

I must learn how to live again.

My surroundings meld to gray. Ignore the brilliance of the oranges, the reds, purple, tallowed yellows. They do not exist any longer. May my visual acuity turn bland.

Let my energy focus on turning off life force. I must not linger, too long, over music, my love, my Beloved. They cannot breathe where they used to prevent rain.

The rain outside seeping in and whimpering now where it used to be full-on blue rain no longer. No longer. The sumptuousness of the wet and her smell of the rain no longer exists.

Since the moment of bliss, the thrilling kiss, heaven has shut her door on me for romance on the menu. There is no longer the slide slide slide pushiness of sex to wound through afternoons. That part of me is dead.

Day in. Day out.

Gershwin’s horns and the strings meeting at crescendo mean nothing to me anymore.

It came out of my mouth quickly and without thinking yesterday and it was the opening of a door, “Mary is dead…” and my friend and I both were frozen, grimacing and nodding.

I will promise you nothing and promise myself everything for now on.

The next three months are an end of a season.

I will, I must make the lap to Christmas Eve. Marker

Hello to a death march of trudgery, of plannedness, for wellness to persevere, to a life where nothing at all else marks me, ever again. Never again. Never again. She has killed me already many deaths daily, night sweating into obliviousness, holding on for footing.

The pain and the harm experienced is grievous. Were I to hold unlimited capital, I would correct the crime breaking another’s Beloved heart, but I instead do not.

That I lack a tribe, a community, a family, a prompter, I task, now.

 

 

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her hands

yosemite30 days hath september

april, june and november

from what summer did we have, now winter

did it any of it ever take place

any of it

i wonder
it was a dream
perfect realism
i was awake but briefly
belabored breathing
climbing to the top

was it real
was it real
was it real

i have some proof

rocks to hold in my hand

branches of trees touched, in my hand

sand from mexico in a honey jar

in my hand drip drip drip

were it not for the leftover solstice hat

it slumbers, it holds no shape now

far away from mine

remember hers

in them i am

 

 

the tempest

where is my Queen Leah now

carrie-fisher-2

i am forsaken

it is possible that the stars and moon and shapes of the world are behind the pine trees and the old oak in vines and the dogwoods are sleeping in the dark too

somebody let off a stream of fireworks sizzling and popping that stopped at the ground fast with reverb

yosemite

the air in atlanta in august smells like smoke and truck exhaust

it whips at the back of your throat when you inhale it

i am forsaken

after the knowing and lovely loving, there is but a draught of familiarity

of cold

my skin and my mind does touch off rapid fire memories and it’s war again

a high wire of white and silver ring high like lightning and thunder

it roars

my body scan depicts a swollen mind and my cave is empty and cock hard

pablo 3

 

 

georgia in july

jen-22-copyi read poetry in the morning with coffee and jazz and make sense of my aching back, my sore back, my bad shoulder with arthritis already, and I stand straight to find that muscle memory.

I’m usually up for my days early. Body clock.

I catch up on email and work on school. I’m years into doctoral research and study and everybody and I know that it’s now or never.

Now then.

atlanta-forest-at-east-point-copy-copyIn the dark of 4 AM in Atlanta in Georgia, from my study window there is a church with a lot of bright lights on that looks to me like a white shiny beacon in the middle of a hill, a mountain. It shines brightly and I haven’t driven over to see what exactly is there yet.

Georgia in July means that you lay down poison to dissuade snakes off of your property and away from the house. Copperheads. Garter.

Kudzu grows and grows and grows and grows.

Hot. Sticky. Sweaty. A light layer of sweat just stays on me at work but I’m rather busy and physically active at work, but you’re hot and sweaty and tired by 2 PM.

Werk.

triptych 1

color

The issue of color is an interesting thing to think of.

I experiment a lot with painting and while it seems as though I criss-cross with texture, oiling it up, glossily, sloppily, with slippery new paint colors, look at the above painting Triptych 1 acrylic on canvas 18 x 36″ (c) 2017 that I painted last night.

 

My early morning dialogue with Dr. Dan Fisher ended up with “dialogue” 12 x 12″ (left above) and another 3 cocks on a beach digital redux (Barnabe & Padron, (c) 2017) (right above) is filmic work.

3 on a beach CU gray

Close Up of 3 cocks in gray on a beach shows reds, golds, whites, yellows Barnabe & Padron (c) 2017 digital work.

My first acrylic on wood “bug” (c) 2014 confirmed my like and predilection for working with wood because the surface is like hot molten volcanic lava that turns the paint into clay.

bug

i like the color blue. it reminds me of nothing but her saying her favorite color is arctic blue like “blue triptych” acrylic on canvas 18 x 36″ Barnabe & Padron (c) 2017 digital work:

blue triptych

and of this same Triptych 1, is Yellow Tower (c) 2017

yellow tower

architecture rings true, too with more blues, greens, aquas, white and greys in “buckhead skyline and flag” photo original (c) 2016

cropped-atlanta-building-jen-padron-photo.jpg

and this dreamy atlanta skyline original photo (c) 2016

atlanta-september-sunday

3 in red triptych (c) 2017 Triptych 1, acrylic with reds, blacks, purples, blues, yellow, green

red 2 triptych 4 cocks on a canvas

on my Top 3 list is this study of yellows and golds and blacks and reds (c) 2015

cropped-abstract-mistake.jpg