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almost purple by Chris Rypkema
https://www.are.na/chris-rypkema/almost-purple
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the kindest of us rest in the shadows, horizon melodies sail to us, and measure our distance as we walk, we are young and we are friends of time, numbered and immortal, gods, sleeping on the riverbed, without contact, calling for another language, another form, new fathers and mothers and a new religion, flickering from beyond, after nature, step deep, we do not ask who we are, or to stay the same, bound together without destination, directionless waves fold over ourselves, crash into concrete border, rains push us out to join others, those carried by the cars above, tunnels, drifting, infinite soothing forms, joggers, mattress, floating laundromat cycles, reeds bend the way of the city, limbs swing on reflection, hours lining up in cinematic motion,
we've seen every event, isolated, blinking influence, cut the labels from our clothes, we return to ourselves, and will not determine our edges, amorphous shapes washing perimeters, we grip our cheekbones, inside, outside, inside, outside, moon swallows the dust that cannot rest, woven, beautiful canopies of sound, rake our hands, three-dimensional paintings, child's bicycle, with streamers, on both sides, silence absent, replaced with lungs, vertebrae, belly, fictional containers, with long walls, embedded, caught on the inside of the mouth, displacement wasteland, corrugated ellipses, between sirens, ribcage radiance, mist, punctuated by windows, calling out names we are not able to hear, changing hues with the conditions, without notice, ringing water, raincoats, bent in the wind, pregnant, kind eyes, drawing, swinging umbrellas, envelopes, lavender garden, river becomes a meadow, circling music, jet engine volume, monologue alluring,
river explains how to build a spell, in caves with threads to guide us, mirrors angled in a different direction, we will not leave words, something material, muscles lose memory when the tide goes out, lowlight desolation, black resin, lingers, precise location of touch, tactile city, sparkling, pulsing, droning, glimmering, our lips reflect the passing cars, panes of glass, and matte paper, with torn edges, rolling, rolling, steel beams, we have the bridge, we incorporate the noise from the train, reanimated, laid on canvas, to luster, in our case, the sky doubles in the distance, blurred, amateurish, and full of artifacts, corroding circuits and long-form narratives, another song, perpetually refueling, at the same time, eroding, raging, shooting off the water, whispering, we are not exotic, seagulls, our responses are trivial, we become caretakers, communicators, translators, permanent layers, lapping, smearing concrete, without control, we are void, the thing of secondary purpose, surrounded by constant transport, service carried out with kindness, skaters, trucks exchanging new language, each piece is the message, like clouds, river is always revising, water is always ready to learn, mapping crystals, illuminating piers
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we are young and we are friends of time (Moyra Davey)
flickering from beyond, after nature (W.G. Sebald)
hours lining up in cinematic motion (Etel Adnan)
beautiful canopies of sound (Pauline Oliveros)
river becomes a meadow (Roni Horn)
blurred, amateurish, and full of artifacts (Hito Steyrel)
the stream is always revising, water is always ready to learn (William Stafford)