Autumnal-Colorly Challenged

My father-in-law wants me to look for " colors."
Actually he tells me,
" keep an eye out for places of color, will ya? "
By this he means for me to keep an eye out for streets
with trees that are changing color because of the Autumnal time of year. The problem is that from my perspective,
just about anything can be beautiful in my eyes, or rather,
the way my brain is wired
to process What I see through my eyes,
is programmed to find beautiful composition in just about any
frame I decide, in my mind, to still.
Four instance, the tree
in front of the community center.
The community center is not architecturally appealing in any sense:
off-white-plaster walls;
a wooden-beam covered walkway around the side of the building.
The trees are not a brilliant maple,
but a type of eucalyptus
without any girth.
What appeals to me in this
frame I've chosen to still
is the way the wind blows
the leaves from
the still green tree.
They fall at times, or rather,
like a leaf blower is at full blast
the leaves ungracefully shower the ground,
but at other times
wind gently blows
a few leaves fall and
caught in a gentle breeze
flutter to the ground
like snow.
I can't be objective,
or as objective as my father-in-law,
in the horticultural flux
brought on by climate changes.
I'm just wired differently.

Metal Suits—Bows and Arrows

I was thinking of Owen and his metal.
How he fits the knee braces onto his knees.
It reminded me of my obsession with bows and arrows.
There is a likeness of father in son in the obsession of building something.
This obsession relates to the imagination and wanting to have to create something beyond your means.
I remember I would always think "THAT would make a good bow" or "this would make a good arrow"
and I also remember that time when I made
the perfect bow with
the perfect arrow
that I had made, crafted, from my own
Obsession
Imagination.

I remember walking down the street
holding my creation
and looking over the fence of the neighbors
and seeing Wesley with his store-bought bow
and his store-bought quiver of arrows
and how much better they flew
than the one I crafted.
And my world
my obsession
my imagination
crashed around me that day.
That was the last bow
the last arrow
I will create for my own imagination
Obsession.

I look at my son
and his pieces of metal
his ascension
His obsession
his imagination
Working
The cogs turning inside his head
and I hope
I watch him
wishing and praying that they
do not break or crash
His obsession,
His imagination.

Linseed Oil

Jazz lounge with hazes and happy faces
Blues players join in.
I smell... linseed oil,
My opiate-portal to the land of creation,
Vehicle of aesthetic impulses,
Binder of pigment,
Newly painted scent,
Deliquium of the efflorenscence spectrum.

It works best in conjunction with
a pigment mixed with a binder,
simbiotic with color.
Like a therapist who helps
Push through problems
It can be added in doses.
To an overdose victim:
an adrenaline shot.
It's an actor who relies on
Suspension of disbelief.

It's a musician with
Voodoo qualities.
A Vandalic poet on
A mistical mind enhancer.
Like the Big Easy
New Orleans ragtimers
True southern comfort
Smoothed out the way
The sax smoothed out jazz.

The Music Room - an exercise in Personification

Everything about the room was cubical.
The plants tried to offset the squareness
with their triangular leaves and coiled vines,
but all that accomplished was they were given a trompe l'oiel look.

They screamed for identity, uniqueness,
except the space that encompassed the sparse vegetation,
even the negetive space,
could be measured with mathamatical precision.

The colors revolved closely around
the maroon furnature.
The only redeeming quality was the music
escaping from the rectangular speakers.

The room asks for conformity,
even the smell (or lack thereof)
threatens to engulf.
The sounds demand a release,
require a revolution.

The music swaggers into the room,
eases into the chair and stacks its feet on the table
like a needle on a record.

The music asks for all the eyes in the room to close,
not to create darkness,
but to allow the shapeless synapses to join the rhythm
and echo the melody that strikes the conformity
with an electrical current of volume.