Poetry · Writing

A Million Words – A Chapter Washed In Virgin Oil

I use to paint, nothing more than a hobby

a brush stroke to free a painful afternoon

like letting a bird free from her cage

and we sang the same song.

A re-centering tool- it’s what a friend called it

can call her Liz – and Liz added

lets take it a step further lets paint outside.

Got in a jeep with the doors missing

shoes at home brushes in the car

wind in our hair hand on her thigh

hers in my hair-

we came to a cliff overlooking truly nothing

and she said-

fill it with paint

and the Sherlock in me was ready with the bucket of Salt Blue ready to fill every corner but no

the Watson approach- a pond once existed here-

a family of ducks all beautiful and kids brought them lunch and watched them like a free zoo

couples posed on rocks, these aren’t your every day rocks no these are fucking boulders

the kind Indiana Jones sees in his nightmares.

a pair of green trees with rings visible on the outside

older couples would come to carve knots on them – another ring for a happy ring

that passes through

and during the night sky- shitty teenagers would come and have a bonfire

cheap beer and loud music, they would count all the stars

and catalogue them like files a through z and

they danced until the ducks came the next morning.

It was their shift.


and we packed our paint- we left two brushes behind

for the next chapter.

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