becoming a heārtist
crimson arrow strikes me, my ivory heārt is bleeding.
I craft an artifact the chromic world has long forgotten.
still in time before times, witnessing a whispering duet of wind,
animating story through my brushstrokes.
I reach to fetch a teardrop from the scorched skies
and bury this memory deep inside Mother Earth’s crying eyes,
moistening the arid, lost lands,
somewhere between no-where and nōwherę else.
the “me” melts into the golden-yellow Yeshimon desert sand,
deep in Gaia’s ancient cores,
then back-forward again
to the exact meeting point of an anonymous canvas
and beloved Don Pąnnellō, my trustful brush.
transmuting, with transparent neon paint,
the claim of “self” into a no-mine, clear-rock prism,
dazzling—breaking the light-rays of the purple sun
into spectacular rainbows of art.
I am a heārtist, a wandering soul.
I came to this present moment to become whole.
â//ā

written c. 2014-2015