Seeing They Are Umber and Soot and the Color of Melts

New self-portrait, first in a year, ink, pencil, watercolor, salt

It's not done, still working on the words that go inside, what order they will go in and in what medium

Chances are good I'll fuck it up so I timestamp here a thing I made that I like just after I made it before I fuck it up

I forget how much I love this then remember why I stop, I have modest talent in design and color but limited hand skills and have no delusional ambitions (for these or those poems I write) beyond making, especially with good music in my Dr Sevrin ears (update)

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Eat the documentary					MINGUS
Laugh, it is not by design but certainly not a coincidence my favorite posts often birth themselves for a Friday post before a three-day holiday weekend

BARTLEBY AT THE WALL

Jack Gilbert

The wall

is the side of a building.

Maybe seventy-five feet high.

The rope is tied

below the top

and hangs down thirty-five feet.

Just hangs down.

Above the slum lot.

It's been there a long time.

One part

below the middle

is frayed.

I've been at this all month.

Trying to see the rope.

The wall.

Carefully looking 

at the bricks.

Seeing they are

umber and soot

and the color of melts.

Even counting them.

But it's like Poussin.

Too clear.

The way things aren't.

So I try not staring.

Not grabbing.

Allowing it to come.

But just to the point

where I'd see

the mind gives a little

skip

and I'm already past.

To all this sorrow again.

Considering

the skip between wildness

and affection

where everything is.