Saturday, January 08, 2005

Kiss My Converse.

Back in art school, I witnessed a girl paint her chucks with oils. It's made out of canvass, she points out with a shrug. Painting on windows and milk bowls, and cold locker doors drove her insane. Concentric circles of black, red, and yellow were applied with delicate care, as if painting her nails. She's spent eight lives, claiming she's born with nine. Carefully, she walks out the door, her scent laced with linseed oil and the glow of cadmium red surround her ears. A room playing Trane drowns her tail as she sees visions of Dali clocks dangling like sneakers from power lines. She licks her paws waiting for her shoes to dry. Wouldn't it be pimp if I could kiss her Converse... And hang her masterpiece in an old, circus sideshow for all eternity? Oblique. Sho'nuff.

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