Blue Study

I think you know the familiar kind of-- sick of yourself --each swallow tastes like a glob of chunky chartreuse, you feel disgusted, dirty inside and nauseous unable to sit still and so you try to clean but realize after your hands are raw from chemicals and red from pressure that it is futile, so you think you should read for a little while, you think perhaps you have been busying and stretching  the wrong muscles and you could use the preoccupation of the mind, as though it was ever unoccupied or somehow free from little dust devils, a gathering of motes or thoughts that matte the shine, whose raspy murmurings stand on top of the very tracks of thought causing some horn to blare, so you decide to walk away, nearly deaf, you decide to take a hike, chew the view, and out there too, every step, left, right, there, reminds you of you, so you decide to seek Others to preoccupy the eyes, which you see, only reminds you of how you act that stupid human way.

It is like the days you wake up with a thought-most certain, confident and clear that you will remember and capture this crisp epiphany, but before you can even begin your word search or jar finding the temporary file is unrecoverable, contents empty, the pen dry, poof…. As when photons, which add up, yet individually are equally as heavy, contribute to experience and now it is forever out of focus and you decide the pen is too sharp, a gentle brush may work better, colors may even cure the acidic aftertaste, acrylic may do the trick, at least aromatically, or was this only about aesthetics, taste, yes…oil needs water, and I find footprints on the canvas. Somewhere near, a cat walks with blue paws.

The stuff at the bottom, the sediments, dregs and lees, the slag and settled matters, remnants and residue of making, fermentation and processing-were better to spit out on the page than swallowed whole hearted murky dejection, carbonation or abandonment of pursuit with ennui and flat out No Thank You, repetitively dishing disappointment on an uncoated bleached paper plate. Serve yourself please.

Be a spork. Utility has you. Continue to recall. Not all answers end in never. Some rhetoric is right for some, for some rhetorically left alone. Stand over here-in blue and corrected, this is what I red, primarily. 

Painting by Ludvig Karsten [Public domain], The blue kitchen (1913) via Wikimedia Commons.