Violet
Violet clouds strolling the night sky
Unencumbered by bleached cotton ball obligations
Of day’s direct rays of expectations and perfections
But when the trees have gone black
And the birds have gone quiet
The clouds unfurl their dark finest
I wear this for me.
For my own pleasure.
Red
I
Am seeing
Red.
I am seeing red
Because my country
Once again
Is in the midst of a nuclear meltdown identity crisis
Like a toddler
With a gun.
But not a toddler.
A teenager.
Who is full of adolescent rage
And the contrast setting between black and white turned all the way up
So it is only one way or the other and all too many outlines and silhouettes.
But not a teenager.
A thirty-year-old virgin, Incel.
Angry that he is not granted sex on demand
A demand that is not about the connection between people—
The kind of connection that invigorates, exhausts, and soothes—
He’s angry about the sex-power of dominance over women
Which he wants
but does not possess.
But not an Incel.
A Christian.
Who for the love of God
Couldn’t find compassion
if it were nailed to a cross
bleeding all over her fucking living room.
But not a Christian.
A cop.
Glory be to a Newberry that never existed.
And woe to the cop who turns a blind eye to the shooting of black boys.
Justice requires two eyes blinded.
Keep an eye on that prize.
But not a cop.
A president.
A precedent
diabolical
With more obliviousness
To pain and suffering
Than anyone else’s ego can eclipse.
Yes.
A president.
I
Am seeing
Red.
Yellow
Yellow moon waxing gibbous
Crosses a borderless sky
Without fear of separation
Isn’t she glorious?
Blue
When isn’t blue
The sky,
The waters,
Or ennui—earned or unjustly applied?
Why should it not be
An Aryan eye suddenly dilated
To take in the weight of hatred
And to dilate more
And have arteries halt
To be restarted by ventricles
Pumping to the opposite beat
Suddenly rushing to extremities
To clap on the twos and fours
For the first time since infancy.
Once the lense reflects clearly
Let iris resume towards closure
And cradle the new light within.
Black
Black is found underground
Where the light cannot bend, reflect, or reach
Into the caverns
No celestial body offers navigation
Express or local
Above the sod
Even in the darkest hour
One walks among shadows and silhouettes
Brown
Brown skin kissed by the open mouth of the sun
More deeply climbing latitude down to the zero rung
Where brown nears the darkest, boldest, coffee bean
While north, in the land of snows
Where melanin slows
The wrong idea was built upon
Like centuries of limestone
Unaware of how easily the perceived ground crumbles
Because nothing held together with lies can last
May the Earth swallow those who cling to the lie
And may the brown skin receive her proper kiss upon her neck
With all abuses vanishing like the melting snows
Orange
A cocktail of balance
A two-off from the negroni
First, whiskey replaces gin,
Then tequila replaces whiskey.
Tequila, that desert spirit,
arid nectar, sour and strong
And then the paradox
Sweet vermouth, a good one—
Vermouth is too often treated as a forgettable tagalong—
Remember every fairy tale, when such a character is the star,
Assume a swan among ducks.
Then Campari, glorious bitterness,
Such herbs of loss and regret.
Swirled in a vortex of ice, to combine and to retreat and soften in cool waters.
A wheel of orange,
Dried as if in the desert sun,
Sweet citrus juices made into stained glass.
And the bitter zest enshrining the rest.