just stepped up the little stairs to reach his steering wheel. This vehicle is not required for his line of work. My studio, a converted porch, faces his yellow house, his big truck. My home, rising during the Great Depression, has withstood many assaults over time. Her old bones don’t deserve to be rattled.

The sky is bright, the birds are singing, and every morning the man across the street shatters this peaceful illusion. His truck’s reverb frazzles the neighborhood, echoes through my chest. Maybe the man across the street needs the sleepy world agitated at 5:45 AM, maybe tremors make his shadow grow.

If someday he should acknowledge the next phase of life, I pray he doesn’t buy a bigger truck. I don’t want to become another person in this burning world who adds more noise to the hate. I dislike the man across the street. I do not hate him. I will admit, however, to hating his fucking truck.

I painted this a few months ago. Reference taken from a photo of Chris Lee as Dracula. Thought this image was somewhat fitting for this piece:)

I hope you’re all keeping cool.
am:)