What is not Right / Things that are Green

As effortless as she made it out to be, scraping two or three layers of skin to expose raw pink fish meat between tetanus dipped fence divides, as off-putting as the instructions and as brutal of a welcoming as this, there is something to be said about dark eyes that go light in an act of seduction, or alternatively, foul amusement — whether the escape route had been carried by her or a friend-of-a-friend in passing causerie, I felt her in swells through the ingress, and fall directly through to private territory and a pale man in aged linens, Old Bastard. The renaissance man, Old Bastard, not in the god-given sense but of the same vein. There we are, then, with him tucked into newly upholstered leather and me with brambles and ankles bloodied in a fast to pant hem, Old Bastard, now yelling something about who are you, where do you stay, and I’m turning around as if I hadn’t come alone. A slacked jaw orchestrates a shift in tone and suddenly the old man is pulling his door open from the reach of window and wagging his green fingers with such force I can smell the mold maturating below his nails. There’s a few things I’ve got running, then, with one being the farcical idea of lying in blatancy and the other, an adventure cam strapped to the base of a tree fifty yards behind me marking my entrance with a pulsing time-stamp. I think of her, and off-white crew socks with dirt stains that rub up against each other in a bay window, that rub against my bare stomach in such a way that’s sibling, familial, and then I really do miss her. Old Bastard, in his blackout state and at the height of Judy Garland, is so repulsive I wished he’d cry to stir empathy. These eyes are black and full, well-rounded in the left and all stigmatism in the right, a slight circle of green, and he’s waiting. Who are you, then, he’s repeating himself, and for a moment I catch a waver; is it banter he seeks? A sexcapade amidst knee-length fiber crops, a woman with wispy stature and bloody legs, a modicum orgasm and hapless crapulence, his name serves him so well I could weep. And so, I won’t, but turn again to nothing and point with my own wavering fingers toward the greenhouse and the overrun balers, the harrows and the plows and the bundles of dried grain in midwestern twine, and somewhere amidst the machinery she lies naked and waiting, not for Old Bastard, not for me, but for the turn of season and turn of crop, for the autumn harvest and loss of a year, she lies in something greener than available to him and I. 

Art ;

‘Festive futuristic landscapes’ Jack Breakfast, 2021 , $60

watercolor paper, watercolor paint, gouache

https://www.etsy.com/listing/606414072/festive-futuristic-landscapes-original?ref=shop_home_active_1&frs=1