I am hickory split from the tree: odd in shape and texture, and as hard as I may try to bend my vision to suit my shape, I am still oddly complex and difficult to find a place amongst the whittled and sanded timbers- guided and leveled and nailed into place. I don't really know why I'm writing this, I think I'm merely trying to work my way around a poem, the beginnings of which formed in the faint hours of starlight:
The carpenter works to a sanded board/ never an enigmatic smile adored
true it doesn't make much sense, but often I attribute this to the mixture of several unmixable ideas- such as blue, red, and yellow (making brown) when you're trying for a faded violet, or earthy orange or green- never sure which color you really wish to use, so you end up with all of them.
It reminds me of a line from a Remy Zero song, "we're built from the old frames"
Have you ever seen the bark of a tree to flow like a river (up and it's the Nile, down and its much less intriguing) or do you only see a trunk, a shield, if it were Norse, from the weather?
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