I know what he saw by what he painted
he wasnt unlike him
I know what I
see what I feel an try to communicatethough imperfectly by words by what I
wriote what I determinefashion with twentysix characters like musical notes arrested
by a score artistic brushstrokes fingersmudges
quillrendered paper fixed by lines brashcolours or subtly harrowed expressed incited excited by claylike
thickness or vibrancy or dreamy opacity happy
or dismal our lives mixgenerously anointed trembling throes of black an white
“When painting a flat landscape,” VanGogh said,
“I see eternity. Am I the only one to see it? Existence can’t be without
reason.”
“Maybe God made me a painter for people not
born yet.”
he drew with words threw white luminous clouds uprisen like meringue saw yellow dirt unhappyuninhabited shale made drunken vultures laughed with wrens chirpingdancing
with exquisite finches
he wriote of ruins to happen children that will disappoint odds defied happy
fools who mull an those who dumbly electrify
because he agreed Existence cannot be without reason
maybe his job was to assess assign reason
whatever reason meant
he was an unsatisfied nomad a waonderer
an inquisitor
he looked for truth mucked lieshoping for illuminating kernals once
they were cleansed
2314 & 2323 & 2326 &
2328, Friday, 15 3.
19
1312, Saturday, 16 3.
19
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