april

i am near ready to break into poetry which is disturbing. don't be worried, nothing is going to happen, fair warning. nothing is going to disturb, nothing is.

saturday another winter april day i was painting. Testing colors really, not trusting the deep expertise of the book in front of me. when i found out the book was right so i moved on to working with a new big brush. i haven't done large format but i don't want to be fussy and small all the time so i am learning how to apply pounds of paint at a time. i've had the brush for a while but not the guts to use it. so much paper, so much paint, so much waste.

the flurries started as i dipped the brush in water and dipped for paint. o another time: the new brush smelled like my grandma's house. it's no revelation that paints smell, usually just chemical. brushes smell. often stink at first because they're dead animal hair. i have a squirrel brush that smells like hot summer ass.

the susie short brush took me right back to the days of baba's stove, alive with chicken soup and cabbage rolls, her giant presence and me wanting acceptance. i was her son's ghost unnerving her following her wanting to be loved again after leaving so soon the last time. who can paint with the snow flying on a spring afternoon forty years ago? time will kill me all over again.

what i see

'