20110817, tumblr piece

The Quiet American

Solemn blues paints a snowy 42nd street

He looks downtown and sees a set of buildings from 1958

The background of a Madison Avenue bourgeois flick

David LaChapelle drowns Tupac in a tub of chains

His brown bold body, like the coffee cake of my honey

The minds eye is open when your naked eyes lay sleeping

Attraction of flame

Spying on the science of fire

Dancing for fame

Icy coated caves it floats through

Like birds coasting in the sky

A black and white life up against your grey hues

Hanging socks, shower floor, toilet box, sail ship, space ship

Towel

You

US

Bright lit blue-skied battlefields

Welcoming grass like sheapskin mats at the end of your bed

Chipping blue stool reminds me of the smell of a place I once called home

Like mental locations

The air chair pops passionate pupils of luxury

Iceberg oculars

Pony-tailed eyelashes

Your denim-patched, delicate, tumultuous heart beats as a bee buzzes 

Docked boat, leather belt man

You have the entire netted world in the palm of your hand 

that you simply squeeze to relieve stress

Casting a powerful stare out of your glowing sunglasses to nowhere particular

Then casually moves forward

You wear your aura quite well

What else could look so good on you?

Projected films and moon-lit pillow mountains

You’re an anorexic bird for the holidays

Or a Willy Wonka blueberry smoking really old cigarettes to assist enlightenment

You step off the street into the traffic of a floaty device and fruitful tides crashing little clear cups of blue juice on your back where you cannot see its magic

You chase your tail like a foolish dog

The silence before the storm comes and a really gorgeous light blinds my eyes

Tinting the world to look like a 70’s film

Dusty books and hippy hair 

Blank stare nudity

Hey! Don’t you think Errol street’s backyard alley is funny?

Kaleidoscopic topics in search of better bop-it’s

I wish to dream in Frida Kahlo’s style of painting

And living

Dazed eyes behind round sunglasses

Beads in your hair, over your bed

I don’t know… what are you anyway?

Just another troublemaker? Another poison? Another psycho?

The quiet Russian walks in a room of hills that look like sand clouds in the direction of a door that will show him all his simple life’s pleasures

Suntanned California

Fake flowers on diner tables

A young couple in love pop like balloons or whiplashed atoms in the crystal freezers of time captured on a Polaroid

Intra-uterine memoirs of candy painted cars and swimming pools

Statues and Kurt Vonnegut paintings 

All the links of childhood floating on a mattress suspended over the dirt next to the skyline

The stars in the sky arrange themselves to look like the states on the American flag

The blue man asks what is it all for? 

I stare for a long time and leave altered

With eyes that are a little more hypnotic and glint with the glitter of six year olds crowns

Space stuff exhaled to send its thoughts and prayers to the heavens

They grow up to become happy-go-lucky girls and boys at SVA.