Touching The Sky
Sunrises on Saturday mornings
before networks had 24-hour programming
are vast memories.
Sense of light and colour from the test pattern.
Darkness eradicated at the age of four.
Infomercials with Richard Simmons
outlined weight loss fallacies.
Starved for a sense of belonging.
Excretion of identity.
Purging taboos of the psychic and psychotic.
And then the colours of Deal-A-Meal cards
nourish my spirit,
quenching my thirst for love and wisdom.
In the morning,
I had no rooster to wake me.
Tootie from the Home Shopping Club woke me.
Gold and emeralds
eased my chaos,
adoration adorned and fever fuelled.
Perceptions of colour
often defined through
Higher contrast from reruns of
The Twilight Zone.
I Love Lucy.
I craved boldness in those 8-bit rainbows.
Skylines done injustice, 16 colours aren’t enough.
Impossible to fill in a 24-hour day with such restrictions.
I observe the sky through filters,
none of which distort reality,
but simply accentuate the vividness of heaven.
Often, I reminisce of 1985,
the first time I had a numerical concept of a year.
Four years after my birth.
Thirty years prior to my father’s passing.
My eyes are hexadecimal algorithms
Pantone has yet to develop.
and my vision is HDMI.
Pupils are my perspective.
Darkness, the onyx observation
of loneliness and loss.
My insatiable need to find a place
within this infinite spectrum.
My unfulfilled desire to belong.
The Wheel of Fortune spins
Luck is pressed.
Pots of gold.
These are the talismans of morning magic.
Ambrosia of oats and marshmallows soaked in milk.
But my lucky charms are my rods and cones.
They allow me to admire these radiant symbols.
All my photos evolved from mud.
This new set of colours is presently paradise.
it demonstrates the incorporation of colour
destined to reach out.
than the earth upon which I stand.
I crave that which is limitless,
for skies are not ceilings.