poems from 2018, written by cecilia
from my original newsletter
4-16
what it looks like beneath a wave.
to set an alarm and still miss it.
to miss it all, blind fool, sleep waltz
through the life, just taking it easy.
coast onto some hearse of imagination.
they all stand in the room missing you.
this is what it looks like beneath a wave,
in the chlorine pool i once drowned.
dead sure it was alluring enough,
the wonderful splash,
let me tell you it ain't pretty.
6-18
The black of certain oil spills, the black of burnt toast. The black of German forests, the black of goth girl eyeliner, the black of Texas street tar made tacky. Black of night. Black a near blue. Black, black canvasses in a myriad of sizes teeming with death overwhelmed the 6th floor corner apartment on Franklin Avenue. The apartment was mostly windows and the black pressed to the glass. There was only enough floor space for the young artist to pace, and for her counterpart, there was no space, but he perched on a stool in such a way that suggested he was a writer. He wasn't. I mean, he plied words to the page, but it was shit prose. The most annoying man in your creative writing class. That’s what he was like.
Ad Reinhardt
At first glance this painting presents a flat black surface. But longer viewing reveals more than one shade of black and an underlying geometric structure. Reinhardt has divided the canvas into a three-by-three grid of squares. The black in each corner square has a reddish tone; the shape between them formed by the center squares is bluish-black in its vertical bar and greenish-black in its horizontal bar. Reinhardt tried to produce what he described as "a pure, abstract, non-objective, timeless, spaceless, changeless, relationless, disinterested painting—an object that is self-conscious (no unconsciousness), ideal, transcendent, aware of no thing but art."