ori.art - Poetry

Qualia painter who isn't me

2024

Live photography and videography in my life gets painted with streaks of red acrylic paint. They look different than the green of the grass and trees and flowers. They don't hurt; the red isn't the same red as the blood under my skin. The red I see isn't drenched in metaphor, not sunken in sea-bound wistfulness, not unheard of to others, and certainly not new. The streaks I see came to me in a moment, stayed around to paint words, themselves, then forgot why they existed and subsequently took their leave. I only hear about them from my friend who saw them a couple minutes ago who is also me. Robert told me I should be my own best friend because I'm all I'll really ever have. He hasn't seen the red streaks yet, and I wouldn't believe him if he told me he did.

not new. The streaks I see came to me in a moment, stayed around to paint words, themselves, then forgot why they existed and subsequently took their leave. I only he

Untitled (Red Gristle)

2024

Emerging from the forest standing ahead:

my eyes cut, cross, crimson. The pushing words undersaid. Soaring, thoughts dance and startle the skull. An aching mist, some, others an emboldened jeer--but don't fear! Beliefs so near are held with others here.

Their hate detours to undeserving towns, with familiar meetings and thoughts of peace gowns. The painters arrive with buckets of tar. Robins and cardinals fly from the cars. The conversation kindled--but oh, no, you're not next. It's the town up ahead, you've got your directions all mixed!

Unconvinced by the vans and their lies, a tired boy retreats. The cans are being pried.

Untitled (Disregard)

2025

On a flowerbed behind the 3-story vines and twisting chicken-tines lies a beautiful untouched pile of cranberries. James sits on the edge of the cave wall that surrounds this scene. The enclosure cradles the foliage, the cranberries, and James alike. There's something James doesn't understand, though. Why is the pile of cranberries there? He doesn't like cranberries. Is it some cruel joke? He pushes all the cranberries onto the ground.

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Window breeze familiar feeling

2024

I sit in the presence of a lover. A lover who has been painting love's canvas white since before there were artists.

I sit comfortably despite my exposure to lives much more real and vivid than my own.

My lover, a cool breeze silently steps forward and places a knowing hand on my shoulder from behind.

I turn and face the breeze, smiling. It smiles back.

Plank

2024

Hard plank got boards on it. Nails in the board, stainless. I slip and fall on my mom's hardwood floor, painless. Oak lines create prison bars. I am underneath the floorboards. Several people crash into ash trees while riding red and brown toboggans.

Pale birch planks stretch outward from my friends' mouths. I chop into them with a dark axe. Splinters fill the space between my friends and me and the floorboards.

I turn the crank until the radio starts to play.

Music is worlds

2024

Later on, the ladybugs rested on great woodflower patches where the sun rests. Light holds the leaves and restrictedly paints barcodes into filing cabinets full of child rearing paperwork. Folded water flows into clouds, out of clouds, in between blue. Pointillated and corrugated white heads curving towards nightly star streamers which plays against my outwardly undying emotion and cuts into my tears.

Thoughts of clean and curtains mean I've reached my agronomous maturity. Why can't the green hate lovers who lie over top of my water bottle and wrist cast? It makes me sad, less than what some call more. Does father create visions of what feeling less green means to his otherwordly sky figures? Meaningless word salad implies salad has meaning. It's just green.

Camp

2024

I go camping

I eat hot dogs over the campfire

I eat mushrooms over the campfire

I feel the flames and I love them

I am happy but also a little bit sad

Things are complicated in my head

I am trying to write a straightforward poem

I am not actually camping right now

I'm sorry I lied

I feel happy

Pisk a pour

2024

I have pink goo in my stand mixer right now. My friend Cat is helping me make some special pasties. The confections must be done before 9 in the morning tomorrow. We are mixing the goo right now. I want to throw it out but the people that want the bakery will be mad. We owe them something. I'm going to throw sprinkles in them. Ok I did it. Cat says I added too many but I don't want to listen to her. I know better--they needed a lot of sprinkles.

It's time to put them in the oven. Time to bake. I feel satisfied knowing I completed something with one of my friends. We worked hard to complete a task and we succeeded. I am so happy about this today. We are such good friends.

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Untitled (Purple)

2025

Dark and dark purple is in a rectangle. Regular lines mark the rectangle. Box tall and sharp.

Ashes, plain and simple, cover the ground. Capricorn upside downfall. Can you understand me? No one understands me. Who said that? No one said that.

Dark purple, maroon textures rock rub hands over hands slide roughly. It hurts when put too much pressure on it. It hurts climbing up deeply indented darkly purple round limestone purple maroon pocket slots.

I can't stand it. I can't stand it. I can't stand it. I can't stand this anymore. I need to go to sleep.

Big concrete wheel on a wooden shaft rolls over volcanic ash, volcanic dark purple itchy scratchy porous volcanic dark purple cranberry ash rock.

Scraping noises fill the air. Concrete on concrete. Grit and slop rub against concrete rolling against concrete between dark rocks and powdered purple locks.

Art you can relate to

2024

Blue sky.

Green grass.

A filtered human experience leaves my tongue. Unfiltered human experience is terrifying.

Brown bricks.

Square roof.

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Schedule of an unrelatable dialogue

2024

Schedule of a man. Schedule of corkscrew in glass. Stuck between two blues. Underneath paper players craving something lost.

This anecdote isn't true: A week after I started fluoxetine, I started meeting new friends. They are blue and they walk around the park across from my building. I see them through the windows, but when I open the door they disappear. Anecdote over.

Cantilever places a belt over top of crashing pointsettas and pistol guns. Shot pistol rifle guns.

This anecdote is true:

Red starts shooting at me.

A bullet hit my arm.

Red's bullets hit my arm.

I falter.

Anecdote over.

My friend tells me anecdotes and I tell her anecdotes. We share anecdotes. We share stories of things that are true. We construct narratives to explain happenings. We light things on fire together. We light things on fire not together. We don't light things on fire when we are together. Arson is a crime. Nothing I have ever done has ever hurt anyone but myself. Everything I have done hurts everyone but myself.

This anecdote is true:

I frequently lie on the floor on my carpet because it is so soft. Sometimes sitting is uncomfortable so I lay down on my carpet and everything feels better. Today I feel cold. Anecdote over.

Pointers give me reason to seek people who have my best interests in mind. I can't see them though. Box shapes clay gray oblong shaped upside down yellow rounded under under the in the soul crossed to your toe having pants lie creator doesn't doesn't doesn't.

This anecdote is not true:

I spend a lot of my time at the library because it's the only public place where I don't hear the cars rushing by outside. They are so loud. People in the library are looking at me because I'm slowly building machines out of the books around me. The librarians worry that my mechanical research will be better and more influential than anything they've done in their entire life. I'm just stacking books. Anecdote over.

I'm building a ladder and starting to climb.

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