the colour of silence

much like the twilight decompression in my father's eyes

while soaking into incandescence, night on cobalt blue

washed thin and falling into rose-amber-olive liquids

in glass jars, the syrup spill of falling-out-of-dreams

into the light of honey-hyphenated easts and wests,

their phonic ring of yins and yangs without the prefaced

you's and me's scratched hard against a page of names,

the linen soak of blood red wine which takes its time,

much like the smell of vintage air inside a violin,

silence is the womb of all these things

"A pure multiplicity of immanance, one piece of
which might be Chinese, another part American,
another medieval, another petty perverse, but all
in a movement of generalized deterritorialization
in which each person takes and makes what she or
he can, according to tastes she or he will have
succeeded in abstracting from a Self [Moi] according
to the politics or strategy successfully abstracted
from a given formation, according to a given
procedure abstracted from its origin." (D&G, ATP)