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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4145 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Cavern Colors (Revised) Steve Williams was born in a cavern without eyes midst leaky faucet drops that bubble limestone flecks and grow spiral sculptures in purgatory’s garden. My dreams are not black: I lie in raspy stalks of weeds, hear a brush on snare drum of a bumblebee. I name the sound yellow. Green is that fiber taste, pucker of an unripe banana. The match flare eats air, smells of carbon death held to a cigarette; that is my red. Migration of taste from dust blackberry to butter-lemon of a good cabernet must be purple. I hear black or blue in the roar of a dying lion at the zoo. Upon my first extraction, my cesarean, I’m told I have working eyes; to blink has no meaning. I can’t sleep in the un-black. My body is ash, my essence- a darkroom negative. I still dream and survive this death of white. |
