Poems, vegetation (reproduction).

Blackberries are fruit and phones and they are not black.

Blues.



If fairies showed themselves to me, they would, on this day, have been dressed in these flowers.


But why is the rum gone? Metaphorically speaking, of course. This is beer. More specifically, mine was. Hers is.

Gimmick. Sam Adams, your glass is not needed. I have too many. But your friends, the ones that told me about the design, the superior bubbly technology, were convincing. I am convinced. I will take it home.


Rain. I am behind these window blinds, shut in by the door, quiet. Interrupted. The force of these convocations of molecules, hurtling from some cloud that grew tired of the weight. When I open the door, it is true; rain. Heavy, violent, creating a wind of its own. I sit under the small roof overhang, protection--almost. A little spray, a little cold; trees dimly illuminated in their sway-dance, twisting above houses.


Pizza and conversation. Birthday. I owe my friend a present. From last year. It would be bad, but the wait has meant an even better present, an understanding of what will mean the most when she and her future husband are overseas, away from family, away from these rolling hills and pine trees. I purchase the petals; three canvases, bought from a family man with hair wrapped in a tower of religion. Devotion. She will like it; she has approved my idea, picked the scenes that resonate most, and I will paint in time for them to become hers, and later journey across the waters to Germany. Pizza. Conversation. Art and friendship.


Spring, its radiant excesses emerging from quiet metaphorical sleep in warming tangible soil. Flashes of yellow, white, pink, purple, blue, yellow. North Carolina confuses itself, not knowing whether to grey the skies to assist the contrast of vibrancy, or compliment the prosperity of life with fluff in the azure expanse, golden orb crowning where ageless cultures were in turn confused, sacrifices made to a day-star. Celebration of renewal, Persephone re-emerging from the deep, met by the colours of her joyous mother. Spring.

Church. All the candid pictures I love to capture of my friends, sometimes falling back upon my head when they take hold of my camera. A moment to see myself as others might.



Percy on the rug. A collision of pattern an color, living and motionless, neither of them stagnant, both of them sometimes questionably clean. Ancient Egyptian deity on top of inspired cliche turkish swirls.