I am bleeding together the colors for a masterpiece:

Pumped with the blues from my veins,

and the raspberry reds from my arteries.

When I sleep and dream ...

there is no rest from the business in my skull.

I see a crayon factory with millions of skilled workers

who mix ... and stir ...

I am bleeding together the colors.

I wake each morning; inhale sketchy thought,

and exhale hues of emotion.

The yellow sun wakes me.

It opens my eyes and I am flooded.

I can see the motions of the people,

and the motions of their mouths: their trite

conversations of the day ahead simplify me.

I am bleeding together the colors.

I walk through the woods when fully awake.

There is a lushness of royal greens that pose

graciously for me. And I adore the trees.

They mute the burning yellow sun.

Thirsty, I look through my garden,

I pick flowers and squeeze the sticky juices

from the violet petals.

I chill a sweet violet sorbet of my own creation.

It cools my blood

and calms my palate.

And I am bleeding together the colors.

The neon lights in an orange grove

engorge my eyes with

their fluorescent intensity.

And I bleed together the colors.

When my masterpiece hangs on the pale wall

and the people are examining it, tasting it,

it still beats with life ...

(twenty-four hours and its juices)

dripping and staining the wall ...

I am bleeding together the colors.