Marks

                                                                 


"… the exhilarated tragic experience, is for me the only source of art."  - Mark Rothko


There are cigarette smoke and burn stains, bottles with some contents left not yet drunk or spilled, all uncorked, some lay sideways threatened by near edges; there are dishes unwashed, dirt on the floor, the unhinged back door; a single bulb lit over the green painted table; green stained wooden chairs, one on its side and leg broken, ash trays overflowing, beer cans, stained and unfinished glasses, papers for rolling the granules of dry tobacco, a yardstick that broke at 19 inches; food left uneaten, an open refrigerator; ice melting in pools on several surfaces; flies, roaches, spiders not hiding. Here, over here, beside the sink filled with brown water, pills loose on counters; a newspaper unread round tea colored stains in rings on A-1; a sharp edged glint of bloody knife blade, packaged food wrappings, dry crisp onion skin papers, air blackened potato slices, wilted leaf of lettuce, stale hard green tinged loaf of bread. Range and oven, spattered black burnt grease and oil; open cabinets where only dust is collected. Mind you do not trip on holes in linoleum, and keep your footing in that large crusted pool of blood which leans and lurches from within the man shaped chalk outline of an artist now retired.

© Amanda 2012
9.15.2012







Orbs of glazed grey travel carefully over surfaces