Curiously Colorito

By Anthony Ivar Colorito

Category: Uncategorized (page 1 of 2)

It Barks At No One Else But Me

It barks at no one else but me.
A guitar walks on cushioned toes
brushing the strings, simple cords,
eerily staged into an ache of calm,
folded along an upholstered wordless hum, gliding.
A perilous, dropping injection of harmonies
melded with soft rain from a great height.

Like it’s seen a ghost.
I think of you, the only.
I forget the words, I forget myself,
I’m a rubber man, in fake plastic earth.
Inside the song
you taste like the real thing.

The melody’s door flies open,
a constellation
formed with yearning flowers
handed to me in the clutch-reaching tenor voice.
No alarms, no surprises, silent.
Wake, from your sleep
It’s not exit-music from a film

I guess it’s seen the sparks a-flowing
The lonely guitar tries to get some rest.
Its pick inflated by the airbag, absorbing the crush.
Rain down
A hand coaxing me
into overlapping vocals against the wall,
inside me, melting into revolving spaces
between the sadness, the separation.

No none else would know,
but you know, you always know, all the time.
Hey man slow down, slow down!

There is a song to keep us warm.
It’s a job that that is slowly killing me.
The guitars rush in front of the drum’s trembling skins
while chance tells me you never wear out.
Sometimes I get overcharged.
That’s when you see sparks.

Please don’t bring up the question:
where the hell I’m going.
I don’t know, I just feel you moving
at a thousand feet per second.
If only I could be who you wanted,
all the time.

Hey man, slow down, slow down
Idiot, slow down, slow down

Everything is in its right place.
Today we escape.

The dripping harmony is locked
in the echo of my sinews.
I choke on chicken voices repeating in my brain.
Breathe, keep breathing.

The guitar quiets its ecstatic pull
having its way with me,
insides turned out.
It can’t get rid of itself.
When I am king you will be the first
to remember my name,
amazed that I survived this.

Minor cords gathering inner steam,

Raining down on the pulse of a single note.

I can’t do this alone.

Lead Rope

His bark, a baby’s crying

Left alone

On the flattened grass


My truck arriving home

To him, a hum, a pulse

The heartbeat of milk


He knows those gears,

Charging resistance

against my silence.


Backyard sprawling,

Cool, inviting nest, yet

a lonely lead-rope to him.


Twig fragment corn flakes,

torn leaves like high-chair oatmeal,

anxious salad of debris.


No space beyond his tail.

Pulled taught

Like the generous rope


Now his yelping hammered

higher octaves echoing

inside my guilt,


As I selfishly craved solitude

failing to examine

My own idea of freedom.

The Crocus

A young woman left the isolation of her home and was collecting pine cones from the forest floor.

She followed a path that wound its serpentine course around massive pines.

She was scared, fearful of a sickness that was taking lives.

A heaviness hung in the uneasy air like a dense fog settling on the plant life all around her.

The population was indoors, self quarantined, hiding out as if paranoia had become the new drug.

Fatigued from lack of sleep and stricken with worry, she refused to allow herself to suffer the little death of profound exhaustion.

So she set out for a walk under the inhibited sun.

She knew she had to live life during this pandemic and even with her head in the clouds there was warmth penetrating her cheeks.

Suddenly, her eye caught a glint of yellow. What looked like a reflection from the sun turned into a bulb from a snow crocus.

Bright orange-yellow, with it’s silver-striped leaves, it emerged from the plain dirt at the base of a tree trunk.

It was a singular crocus, alone and with one bulb, glowing like a lamp and as vibrant as the sun.

In the midst of life put on hold, this independent, brave crocus was born, urged-on by life being lived and she was there to see it and feel it.

It was a new and fresh birth during an early spring, an omen that presaged a return to normal life.

The Playground for Critics

I spend time observing people’s manner and personality wondering about motivations often absorbing content with only half an ear.


Does everyone else also have a preoccupation with form whether it be listening to others or listening to oneself?


It all seems silly since prisms often slip through the barbed interface between the act perceived by others and the planned motivation for the act revealing spectra of unaccounted for offerings that are the playground for critics.

The New Light

I sit in the same spot every morning with my coffee and my thoughts.  Vito lies at my side breathing in the stillness.   Books sit face down with open spines, exposed to my markings, waiting for light to lift the words up into me.  Wristwatches are nearby recording time, some in sync with the now and others stopped during a forgotten moment. 

I set down a turquoise carton of coconut water and watch the sun, rising through the glass doors, play with the topical reflections I see shifting from the simple cardboard container into memories of blonde sand and seductively leaning palm trees.

Next to the arched books sits a cylindrical leather case with small tools inside.  The leather is cracked brown cowhide.  This is designed to hold pencils and pens, a child’s receptacle for school.  I use it to hold small screwdrivers, spring-bar tools, case-back knives to fix watches.  There are also a host of tiny surgical tools taken from other settings like forceps and hemostats and polishing tools with abrasive edges. 

 The tools are all collected in this cracked brown leather case with worn ripples, aging seams and wrinkles around the patina where antique beige stitching holds. The new light comes in and cuts new dimensional interest into the character crevices of the leather shining back alternating matte textures and burnished edges.  The tool case leans to one side with its top unzipped revealing the black and red plastic handles of its contents.

 There are many imaginative tools used to extend my hands inside there.  Art is extending the hands into a new domain.  Rallying thoughts migrate and actions form in the fine-motor memory of my hands.  The space where hands reach and extend with a tool, brush or pen unlocks an unconscious barrier trapped within.  Oceanic clusters in unconscious dreams marry tangible shapes and words to mold and admire.

The leather holds on to the new light.  Tools are secure. The day enters over my shoulder through the glass.   I see beauty in the worn edges and the cracks that remind time to tell me again to appreciate what surrounds me.

Eye Contact

Sometimes I’m afraid

To look into your eyes

To lock on to your essence

It is too beautiful

It clutches all I have


I feel it too much

I become scared

That your inner hand

Won’t like the feel of all of me


Then I open my eyes more

And my heart

Pulls down the sky for you

And I warm you in my blue gaze

So it is just our eyes

Finding where the fear ends

The Palm Trees

The Palm Trees

“You see the palm trees?”   “They tell you that you can do anything, be anything.”

                                                                              Terrance Malick “Knight of Cups”

When I took my first look at the palm trees

My mind surfaced from below

I became aware apart from me for the first time

Distinct from the boy who pretended to be

A separate free interior man

It was not just the palm trees

The day was filled with everything

That everything-in-it quality

Like a bubble blown from gum that never loses sweetness

Everything had a new expanse

Opening up

As if the sky had arms expressing

To all beings

All that is fastened and adherent to this world

An open-ended reach of the moment

Echoed across the continent

And now I was here

Among the animate and inanimate

All the births of myself before me

And now I was here

Like a shock-wave

A silver slice of sunlight’s blade

Opening me up to see

What I could be

I felt everything I needed

In those palm trees with their brushes

Painting the blue into the sky

Into fragment of light

That bound and wrapped my sensitive head

Softening the sharp corners

And blindfolding me so I could see

Tearing away the gray mist of doubting thoughts

A focus back to the beginning of now

That calmed those trees

While ushering me into an electric flood of fire

I could not go wrong

There is no prescribed plan

Only sweep and barter on recognition’s promenade

Where the palms rock in the sweet wind

I Dreamt Her Death

I dreamt her death

I dared her to die

I mustered the courage to push all my force toward her inevitable death

I felt her dying

Others predicted it

A final gust at the end of a hurricane splitting the column bearing the past truths of      unity now fallen to ashes

It was inevitable

Hate and vitriol turned inward fight the battle within the bloodstream

Inside of cells

Tearing viscera

Forcing renegade mutations in the neatly ordered alignments of DNA helices now unwound and crazily strung out into flailing tendrils crying for help

Screaming into the lamp-lit fog of a destitute street

Death feels inward hate mounting

Death feels the crumbling constitution fragmenting along feeling’s interior dirt roads

Hands rub together forming a friction flame

Torrents of hate forge new alloys bent on self-destruction

Teeth sharpen their elements on fire

The engine harnesses the horses toward the cliff’s edge

I saw it all the while

The whole time it was happening

The subtle changes in permanent expressions

Muscles over maxilla draw weapons

Creeping into the brow and marking ruts into countenance

A tint of dark pigment in a sulcus under the eyes

The way the gaze now looks past

Without sweet eye-contact into a blank atmospheric void

Eyes cancelled like bad checks

Feelings gnashing into animated images dancing on the vitreous screen

I couldn’t look into her eyes anymore

The glance charged up the spine

Into outgrowths of inconceivable vocal torrents

Rain punishes the cobblestones of the heart

The heart that I once held in my hands

Hides under a cast-iron veneer

Still beating

Constraints narrowing

Inching inward

Suffocating the free flow of serum

Through vessels narrowing the vision and foresight that once loved immensely and now fights to breathe above water

It is impossible to watch sanely

Where is my medicine?

My fix?

Where did I receive this blessing of watchful gratitude that is filling me up

The blessings of participating in this sinking and the dissolution without wanting to lose myself in in pools of alcoholic oblivion

Where did I gain this footing that helps me keep one step up

One more day sober

One more day present

With spirit entering me from the ether without my will

To nourish my true self

The part that only wants to love unconditionally

I do not know anymore why I have been given this gift where I can bear myself openly to others

Empty the poison from my own prison

Share the pain

Open the vessel to store other’s pain willingly for a short time until

They can take it back transmogrified into the form of joyful medicine

I am blessed

I am blessed

I am blessed

I have something involuntarily that is not mine and it opens my eyes for the first time

It sustains my desire to love like I never have

I can love in a way I have never before

Shine the reflection of a divine gift onto this death that ravaged a life out of sync with existence tearing the fibers of a corporeal being who clung to the earth with nails dragging the firmament up into her chest, dying while trying to use control…

All manner of steel driven into her own flesh attempting to survive and never knowing the peace of spirituality for even a moment before the harrowing wind closed her eyes for the last time in the throes of an anxious way of life always forcing, always venomous, always biting never grateful and then she did not see death coming for even a second.

For some this opens a new volume of tales to come

Born in this moment

A rebirth upon the corpse

Transforming a new version of self

I can feel this

I want to share this

Where this is coming from

 I do not know

I don’t know

I don’t know

I only feel


Immense gratitude

A drive to share with the ones I love

A rebirth and a new day to be alive

For those who I love

A new day

An infinite cascade of feeling gestures

That may not look grand

But if you really look

Really look

Into the eyes

Into the spirit flow

There is infinity waiting

To share this peace

I cannot hold onto it all

It is too much

I cannot balance it all

It spills over

Like gravy made of confetti showering you and only you

With my unconditional love

We must enjoy this manic moment together

This spiritual experience

Born of death

And that is OK

If death initiates a new spiritual height for one who loved that person

That is more than the universe can hope for.

I need you to share it with

I cannot contain it

There is in me an otherworldly explosion

Where words are useless

Words only tarnish and defy the real beauty.

The Lantern Becomes a Lighthouse

I love you.


I can feel the simple strokes of ink on ivory sun-bleached paper.


I love you more than I have known before.


Now, the words stare back. These words may be warnings about the primitive elements of repeated failure. Love can never be failure.


Love is alive and bursting it containment; overwhelming the senses and stimulating the shared ancient depths. A flow from twin hearts, arteries fused into a pulse-dance between two souls still figuring it out.


Tamed love houses meaning under the advice of silence. A bristling love emerges out of words, runs its own way through corridors and parlors storing blood as a gift. I say this as hope molds love’s meaning to me in the discovery phase where glances are pure as a mirrored lake and eyes are not eyes, rather, they are portals to open wider and explore and undress while desire seeks to sprint and the heart beats so loud, the only action is patient shared hypnosis.


What if the child in me doesn’t realize that the love whispered with hands spread wide is stronger than any feeling before? A drowning where the feeling of love outgrows the boundary; the corners and caverns of the body hollowed out by the muscles of song, pushing tissue into snowdrifts that pile onto curvatures of weightless powder; a sprinkling of faith punished into a new season of discovery that keeps its disguise and may not give back.


All along, love’s vintage elements report back from bygone moments redolent in memory. It may just be puppy love incarnate, disguised, yet holding everything that encourages the mating ritual to become an indelible tattoo. Memories of grief are stricken from the record and a new flow state, inside the gauzy comforts of vulnerability, holds the embers of a fresh start within the membranes of an everlasting feeling.


Love comes and goes, yet it stays inside couched in forms that can become unrecognizable.  It registers in families, chosen friends, and strangers. The satellites that fixate a child’s being do not depart the atmosphere of chance encounter where hope and faith never wane. After I’ve taken all the utterances at face value and weighed all the primitive articulations, I would rather have words sacrificed of all their meaning so simple gestures can carry the heart’s weight.


There is no reason to talk further about love. The moon will always keep trying to kiss the sun.   And,  the great vocal catalogue recounting the details of daily life is often just a mad stylus at work on scratched vinyl. While I contemplate and expand my love of that special one, and life continues to faithfully restore childhood memories to their eternal set-point, the lantern I use to find my way becomes a lighthouse.


Lamps Leaking Dim Light

The ever-rising sun

Reachable to a child

Never too far away

A sun that searches my hidden emotions

As I walk out into its heated grasp

Sunken into unhappiness

And despair

This sun exists to remind me

That another day

Another sadness is born

And my existence

Cannot hide from this warm exposure


I can cower in a hovel

Or I can lift my face into the warm light

I look around my surroundings

What once evoked pure happiness

Now sits around me like strewn artifacts

Assembled and contemplated

By family after the death of a love one


The fireplace is cold

Books piled up around its wrought iron grate

Lamps leaking dim light

Onto angular patches of wall

Hoping to enlighten art that sit contentedly

In the ambient atmosphere of indifference


A white divan between lamps

Offers its neutral comfort

Blankets draped on its shoulders

Cabinets of pressed wood

With stylized reflective glass on its door

Waiting to be opened

To reveal forgotten books

Books purchased and held close

With emotional fervor

Sincere intentions to explore

Now abandoned

Ideals living inside an end table no one explores


Books hidden by a fastidious house cleaner

Clearing open spaces of clutter

Expressing puritanical virtues

Minimalism concealing real life

It does quiet the trumpet of intrusive thoughts

And suffocates the raw wires

That spurt electrical charge into monotonous repetition


I close the sliding door

Turn down the car noise

Cars like acres of clones

Driving sequentially and regularly

Across the bridge outside

A metronome of air brushing against the glass

Whooshing across the motorway

That spans the lake

Each car an anonymous clone

Dredging up mystique

And individual answers to wealth

Clones in tuxedos

Holding canopied food articles

Discussing what no one wishes to hear


I return my attention to my room

I sit in my favorite spot

On my molded couch

With the frozen smart screen

Reflecting the imploring light

The coaxing yellow radiance

Of the sun outside

Pulling me out of myself

Like a flitting fly

Searching between disasters

Pulling me out of myself again

Out of the myriad binding fears

Out of this hostage-seat

That holds me captive

Inside indecision and fragile addictions



Initiative sometimes pulls me

I apply my mask of spirituality

And mix with like-minded soul mates

Conflicted, we share hopes and ideals

As if they were actually happening

The thrive of the hive

As the collective mind spills over

For others to lap up and swallow

While pride takes a backseat


I pretend and listen

I feel an amorphous charge

Where hope becomes

A communal hallucination

Then the delusion becomes personal

The collective turns to love

Of the fantasy

The fantasy that the spiritually charged moment

Piled high upon the gathered suffering souls

The only hope left

That holds the shape of God

This fantasy that lifts self-will away

Can actually be had

And if it can

That is serves to satisfy me













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