Trapped in a glistening steel glass tempered elevator going down in a quirky gothic creaky fashion was this portrait artist and painter of the color field vibration and adrenaline aesthetic. Angel of the sand blown wood grain canvas, Orson.
He always had this notion of waves washing over him as he painted reclusively with Odette.
In the elevator itself Orson often felt he brought his own ecosystem with him.
Their famous displays of affection too evoked moonlight and sunny shores in each others eyes were included in the elevator in reality as well as fantasy.

A Celebration of Indian Spices

May God always send down a time 
when your days are wrapped in joy,
when your mind is never shadowed 
by the weight of anxious fear,
when your heart is never swarmed 
by the restless tide of grief,
when your happiness flows unbroken,
like a stream that never runs dry.

There’s a house in my dreams
with no corners—only soft bends
where silence pools
and time forgets itself.

The walls are seafoam,
as if someone bottled waves
and painted memories
onto plaster that still breathes.

In the kitchen,
a kettle sings
but never boils.
It’s always almost
morning.

In the garden,
the sun blooms too—
bright and warm
and just a little
sad.
Even the roses seem to remember
who they were before
the frost.

I wake up
with salt on my tongue,
a petal in my fist,
and a name I don’t say

                          A
                    bright  day 
                 is  magic 
              one should relish
                    it            

of one mortal university
undergraduate built in madly
the brainchild of one Forest Hadley
an a Ford able game paid top dollar
after being purchased by Milton Bradley
called Dodge the Old Farts.

A favorite game I (and the wife) play
here at Highland Manor originated
by yours truly (me) and the spouse
soon after we moved here
eight years ago July first
two thousand and twenty five,
and entails a bit of strategy
and skulduggery to avoid
the poor sniveling souls.

We slink and slither along the halls