Of Orange & Life
After Frank O'Hara
But if I was a painter it'd be so much easier to riffle the feathers of that smoke-blue scrub jay bobbing below the birds of paradise, to abrade the rhythm of a passing woman's blood or a neighbor's blue collar stubble— less exhausting to render the buried light inside every supposing thing. Because a bona fide artist can make an orange drop from the canvas, ply into a palm; rind like dimpled leather, the intimate peeling. Words are terrace-smoked cigarettes and if a Monet we love is flung into a fire pit, we can only watch then write, such lovely cinders. If I could paint, then we'd actually see the scrub jay & orange instead of pretending. Look, I just want to measure this weariness— that lost inch of light yes, and sometimes, this terrible life.
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