the night tears away
like a match, billowing
and booming in
movie stills —
the mind, a hand turning
images, sepia
and azure blue.
something slips on nights
as these, the track of being?
i sat in the car all night
nearly frozen, alone
surrounded by the machinery
of worry –
she had left
this storm is dark, I am
a character looking for a line –
what is the meaning
of this storm and rain
and why is my mind
fixed on it?
as if it mattered.
poem by chris woodhull / art by mark rothko
never lose track
of your shoe-
laces in the
hand securing
the knot guided
by the eye
from above.
chris woodhull
I In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud. II From my balcony, I survey the yellow air, Reading where I have written, “The spring is like a belle undressing.” III The gold tree is blue, The singer has pulled his cloak over his head. The moon is in the folds of the cloak. poem by Wallace Stevens / art by Danielle van Ark
Monks & Mannequins 