a portrait of contrast in texture standing out for its subtlety sleek and silvery smooth against grainy greys wilted whites and beige beyond

fresh green things rising from the earth even as the blackness settles and the walls last long enough for the writing to be read

delightful ducklings bouncing in bubbles colorful circles on a drab grey wall how they must enjoy the rain when it flows out through the down spout and how they must appear perfectly placed as the rain splashes and the bubbles dance like raindrops in a summer storm

this deep pink, evocative of a certain gentle strength standing out against a subtle beige grey wall, floating above a bed arrayed of light greens early spring with nights still cold and days warm enough for color to emerge

the face of this building she is the tulips, clearly, are for her like a face one might see in a dream — oblique out of focus, distorted and haunting, attaching to memory and recurring similar in some respects to the one I recently awakened from singing to me…

decorated plywood and a bed of pink tulips indicate this old warehouse is not so much abandoned as it is unoccupied these tulips turn out to be an offering to an icon of a muse the devotion of a spray paint Rublev inspiring mortals below to look up and see beauty…

flared fenders, once impressive now trading topcoat for mildew with tires sinking into asphalt eyes closed, dreaming… not even stertorous snoring is audible now of the once throaty growl it hears in its dreams as it prowls lonesome stretches of blue highways slithering silently through serpentine curves on sinuous valley…

reflections on metal in smooth dark paint evince a world reminiscent to analogue tape as compared to early digital recordings soft, smooth, and warm saturated and thus technically distorted as a representation and yet all the more pleasing for the same

an unexpected adjacency in perfect proximity for framing in for an upgrade, perhaps? how can anyone bear to drive an Econoline without Italian tires?