there’s an acute danger in affinity.

just as with any two things that are the same.

mathematics understands this as exponential growth. we know it as pouring water into a full tub,

or too much pressure on the one side of a glass,


a tidal wave responding to a small-scale quake on the coast of a small town.

we pray for a counter.

opposites aren’t much better, though,

an even steven leaves all factors at zero,

and a balance beam balanced, though beautiful in its lesson of equilibrium, can impart no progress through its stagnation.

but there’s an acute threat of fate in affinity’s innate shades and shadows.

we understand as one of our most basic tenets that each set of eyes might not see the same as the other.

voted for as though in alliance, bakers understand this well.

like sifting fine powders, rising and settling suddenly makes more sense.

a given color is mixed into all points of that palette, said the painter to me when i asked her the secret of hue over a glass of Montalcino.

the blood red of the sun over the post-apocalyptic village is in every house,

every window,

even the shades of green in the ferns in the corner:

the same ones that symbolize new life in the wake of disaster.

(she’s still a new-born symbolist)

weddings traditionally are finalized, before the kiss, of joint flames on a single candle.

try this at home.

please, do try this at home.

it’s not a community center stand-up set.

held to the side evenly, neither wick extinguishes, but cloudy white Perspiration strips the scrap pretense down.

musicians know the ability of affinity well.

you can’t go wrong, the pianist says, playing nothing but C.

what ocean would disagree, her skin infinite kisses of molecules in surface tension, their embrace protecting a universe from harm, from sky-walkers that want to destroy and pillage perfection?

our sweat drips into the amniotic mirror of the earth’s fluid body.

and sometimes we look into another’s eyes and it just makes sense.

this should be enough to teach us to fall forward into affinity because we aren’t kicking away hard enough from that which doesn’t understand.


the gradient

the sky bleeds cornflower blue perfectly like that crayola color. we wait in waiting; we sit and fall sleepy in fall-fever season. smoking cigarettes against our better judgment there’s a thought of calm anticipation, like one or both of us has a dream or many and it’s just a matter of time until the new moon comes up in the right sign or an anonymous benefactor dotes on us or we reach the perfect threshold of substances, laughter, or musing.

the sky is puffing indigo and the question comes up of joint fire or double-helix power and captain planet makes me chuckle. the crickets really begin to speak now at twilight and although their song makes perfect sense, it’s not of our language and the tragedy is that like all other beauty in this world the translation is transitory. forgotten as soon as the babel fish bloops it out.

now the sky is seething, floating in royal blue and although the silence and breathing is lapping over and under there’s a dis-settlement, as though we aren’t meant to be here under the blue but instead under the red, fire sky, scratched up by black obsidian, a different breed of locust calling out not to us at all, laughing and scoffing at that gall of ours to sing back.

it would be the same there too.