Untitled

A can;
cylinder of steel wrapped in plastic, printed with text and colors,
a plastic nub on top, black circle on one side.
He shakes,
the rattle of steel on steel, pigments inside mixing with propellants,
an arrow marks the direction of egress.
Boards on the lawn
take the paint, driven from the can, bright and light and properly mixed,
micro-beads of color laying a smooth line, yay wide.
Stroke after stroke,
can after can lays color after color, the canvas rough and uneven
as cheap plywood, the perfect texture.

And another board dries in the sunlight.

There's paint on his hands, vibrant, colorful,
to match the pain in her voice.
"A chasm," she says, "A gulf, wide, dark as night.
The gaping maw of the future. Don't you see it?
Splits formed from change, from the pressure of two tectonic plates as the years and geologic forces drag them apart.
Don't you see it?"
His hands, vibrant, his fingers, dextrous, hang limp.
His mind churns as if mixed by the shaking.

A can;
tube full of color, labelled and delineated from a dozen twins,
colored plastic completes the tube, another label.
The paint,
hissing softly as it passes the nozzle, slowly draining the can,
reducing its weight gently, bit by bit.
Each line drips
as the paint pools, from the corners, from the inside of the bends,
each shift must be faster, planned.
A wall,
a vertical surface changes the dynamic, changes the weight of the paint,
the properties of the lines, but he'll adjust.

And another board dries in the sunlight.

"I accept who you are," and there's pain again, "but I cannot hear this.
My choices are my choices, and should be respected, as I respect yours,
but will not hear them."
Color sits on the tip of each of his index fingers,
from a can in each hand.
"I can't be myself, I hide to pretend that the rocky depths of the canyon that's spreading are bridged, that a path remains that leads across.
But I cannot stare at this gap, the canyon, how can you?
Don't you see it?
With your waking eyes, how can it not threaten to swallow you at every step,
soulless darkness, empty of life or light,
it is the future. One, two, thirty, sixty years,
the gap stand before you, between us.
See? There!"

Two cans;
rods of expression, invisibly connected to the two hands that hold them,
two colors mixing in the air, different hues.
Two paints;
two extensions of the same whole, the same purpose, the same stuff
wrapped up in them, both with common goals.
Lines cross,
the paint sits thickest there, a few small drips but still bold and vibrant
in their colors, they compliment and clash.
A final trial
defines the design, the colors, the lines, as every piece falls into place
the last few errors leaving streaks behind.

And another board dries in the sunlight.

Overspray and back spray, mixed in the air,
coat clothes and ground alike. Colors don't discriminate.
"What is this?" paint begets pain, "Where could this end?
Jagged by its very nature,
filled with rocks positioned to crush and cut and puncture,
but just out of sight below,
with each mirrored protrusion and each asymmetrical jog making promises where none exist,
this rift widens daily."
Brushing at it does nothing to help.
"Is it enough? What is enough?
Reflections can cut, sharp in their shards." Throwing back the paint on his hands as they do.
"No puzzle here, no pieces to lock together,
bonded to form a unified whole. Just plates and the convection they rest on.
Dragging apart across millennia, tearing the world above them, breaking lands and mountains and homes, destruction incarnate ripples from them.
Where is your pain?
Where is the destruction?
Why can't I see it?"

Two hands;
extrapolations of the intent of their bearer, weaving a tapestry
of colors into the wind at once.
Certainty certainly
driving the movements as the hands dance in the night air,
alive with the mind of a painter, an artist.
Concrete sits,
immovable, impenetrable, firm and unyielding in its roughness
and grit, accepting the paint readily, dripless.
Two lives
splash on the wall, with a whisper and a shout as the pigments descend,
certain, complimenting, and clashing.

And a wall dries 'neath the moon.