Wendy Videlock

A lizard does not make a sound, it has no song, it does not share my love affairs with flannel sheets, bearded men, interlocking silver rings, the moon, the sea, or ink. But sitting here the afternoon, I’ve come to believe we do share a love affair and a belief — in wink, blink, stone, and heat. Also, air. This is not a fable, nor is it bliss. Impatience, remember this.

If  you’re crowish and you know it give a caw Caaaw If  you’re weighted and you bear it send a moo Moooo If  you’re owl and you dreamed it, give a hoo Hoooo If  you’re thirsty and you mean it breathe an ahhh Ahhhh You are putty in my hands said the wind to the stone said the dawn to the bloom said the dark to the moon.

I don’t buy it, says the scientist. Replies the frail and faithful heart, it’s not for sale.

The word, the stone, the ringing phone, the part of me that wants to be alone, the vow of silence in the reeds; God descends in ravenese. The vinegar tasters dip their fingers, make their faces: stoic, bitter, strangely sweet. The seeker leaves for Bangladesh, the prophets check for signs of theft, the singers sing for what is left. The children breathe. Come of age. Search the faces for a taste of what's to come: the widening road, the row your boat, he choked with weeds, the rabbit hole. This holding on. The word, the stone, the ringing phone. The part of we that answers when alone.

The forest is the only place where green is green and blue is blue. Walking the forest I have seen most everything. I’ve seen a you with yellow eyes and busted wing. And deep in the forest, no one knew.

for my mother They are fleeting. They are fragile. They require little water. They’ll surprise you. They’ll remind you that they aren’t and they are you.

I should be diligent and firm, I know I should, and frowning, too; again you’ve failed to clean your room. Not only that, the evidence of midnight theft is in your bed— cracked peanut shells and m&m’s are crumbled where you rest your head, and just above, the windowsill is crowded with a green giraffe (who’s peering through your telescope), some dominoes, and half a glass of orange juice. You hungry child, how could I be uncharmed by this, your secret world, your happy mess?

Change is the new, improved word for god, lovely enough to raise a song or implicate a sea of wrongs, mighty enough, like other gods, to shelter, bring together, and estrange us. Please, god, we seem to say, change us.

Full of strength and laced with fragility: the thoroughbred, the hummingbird, and all things cursed with agility.

Dear Writers, I’m compiling the first in what I hope is a series of publications I’m calling artists among artists. The theme for issue 1 is “Faggot Dinosaur.” I hope to hear from you! Thank you and best wishes.