On Becoming A Painter

After I cried

the colors of the world I lived in

were infused with a new lucidity

because of my tears.

By their condensation

blues were richer

so I sang them

gold was gleaming

so I gathered it

red was fierce

but I did not fear it

black was triumphant

so I crowned it

green was fertile

so I did not kill it this time

gray was full of color

so I changed my heart toward it

white was aware

and nearly blinded me at first

pink was the commander of all beauty

and one that softly conquered my eyes

yellow meant youth

so I sat back in my chair and became a child once again

under the influence of yellow!

beyond these, pearl was there

and so was emerald, topaz, diamond (which is its own color)

and I believed all of them

I believed their stories—

brown was made of earth itself

so I merged with it

in the iridescent tranquility of a dream

which is the dream of art—

orange was full of moisture and surprise

then suddenly tears again filled my eyes

but this time from a pleasure

that in my pain I had been

too skeptical to accept;

a nerve was struck, and I believe

it came from my witnessing of

the orange peel resting on the

ice cubes in my mezcal,

clear ice cubes in blood orange fluid.

My trauma receded into

surrealism

by virtue of

the color orange

observed through a wet lens

and as the suffering began to subside

my vision was electrified

and I became an

impressionist.