The Crown of Wood

Buried in a glass coffin somewhere is a violin. The older the wood, the greater the value. A long time ago, that violin was built by calloused hands. Like my teacher tells me, if your sound is too shaky, you will get tomatoes thrown at you in Italy. Like my teacher tells me (Every Wednesday for the past eight years, I have entered her fancy red velvet studio. The chandelier that listens to me when my intonation is just off and my spiccato isn't classical enough is engraved in my mind), on that stage you must be unshakable. There are too many violinists and not enough stages. The light from this sturdy white wood shines into my eyes, it buzzes with the pianist's chords as I raise my instrument to begin my life again. The older the wood, the greater the value.

Paint Remains on the Canvas

Something about the pigment and brush connect one to

even the most detached people.

oodles long aeda and bones in the ground.

As I stand in the studio, hand poised over my gray canvas, a painting by an old Italian man illuminated in front of me, the wash of the warm light and the oil-dipped grisaille make me think of every forgotten artist who built the world from its cave-painted r Joo oots.

The Poignant Regret of a Fish

I had a small shimmery blue and green betta fish, and I don't

crv at tunerals. Fish are

surrounded by water. It rish cried. there would be sorrow on our cinner niates. A mass

consummation of teartul, dismal, dreadtul silence.

Inconceivable

Unfamiliarity as a concept dances in front of my vision like an apple on a string.

My grip tightens on an increasingly unreachable goal.

Just like flowers grow on long-decomposing bricK.

Thoughts of seeing things with my own eyes have filled the cracks in my bored mind

Reflections on the Iris

From my vantage point below, I can see above and in-between.

I'm bathed in the pink light of epiphany and revelation

I'm reborn in green, but the glare is unpleasant on my eyes.