I’m having an affair with

the paintbrush

and typewriter

I haven’t told them yet

but I’ve been seeing each one—

back to back

at night It’s the keys

in day it’s paint

keeps me in whirlwind…

I get lost inside

the thought of

the reward at the end

the idea of wrapping it and tying bows, showing it to the world

but in creation,

it’s a secret

no one knows it but you and the air

your studio is it’s womb

it must travel

from the depths of moth-eaten bodies

to the prose of the worthy eye

I am a beast when people

come inside

for it’s premature

I rush inside to check it’s vitals

artists are never fully satisfied

just like mothers always feel they

could have raised somehow better

but never

forget the joy of making marmalade

is getting rind under your nails

sugar in your teeth

paint on your face

lost in 

maizes of words

of worlds

i forget that genius,


relative proofs

are not to be jarred

to be put on shelves

but rather to be lived 

and breathed like air.


3 thoughts on “Marmalade

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