Tuesday, April 22, 2008

It's hard to keep track of you, falling through the sky

Not really sure what’s been happening to me lately. With a song in my heart, I’ll press my finger tips to the subway window and gently flex them to the softest down beats of the music. As I emerge from the dark tunnels to the bridge at Broadview, or the old houses by Jane, or most favorably, the cemetery north of St Claire, I pulse colour from my fingertips. Well, not really from my fingers, the colour is already there, it just sort of smudges as my fingers pass before my field of vision. I leave bright trails, as all coulors run together along the path my fingers have ventured, swallowing green hillsides, and erasing cars.

I’ll smile crookedly, and let my eyes glaze over as I curl my fingers and dig beneath the public veneer of the world at large. I can swirl great pools of brightly coloured vortexes and let it drip and stain the ground as my hands drop to my sides. I hide it guiltily like it’s a murder weapon. I hide it like I want to get caught.

I can close one eye and position my thumb over your face only to remove it to have it look like someone attacked a picture of you with photoshop. I suppose the most important part, other than the master pieces I stroke out of mid air, is the fact that beneath the canvass that we rarely see beyond, there is still beauty. To me it seems like the world is oil based.

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