My color receptors register this radiant yellow
And refract the image beyond my retina.
These sudden flashes of a yellow dress interrupt my dreams and defer my sleep.
These quick fluttering fragments flee before I can fully comprehend her beauty.
I reflect back to the first grade when I would find the most brilliant yellow to fill in the five points of a shooting star.
It was always a particular yellow that-
I never physically felt the material of her dress but I imagine each stitch was sown from the thread of a blazing sun much more superior to ours with gaseous yellows that glow amongst infinite darkness.
Each vision is a super nova and its luminosity blinds me with a foggy cloud of disintegrated iridescence incoherent with our spectrum of colors.
I can't physically have her so I traveled to find a yellow that matches the magnitude of the secret moments where I mentally have her.
In my journeys through jungles, I've seen Golden Canaries constructing nests in trees and swam amongst spongy yellow coral reefs in the Mediterranean sea.
As unique as they may seem, they weren't the particular yellow I see in my dreams.
However, there was a scene...
I found an elementary school in East Afrika with yellow hallways and doors.
The children dipped their hands in yellow paint and waved as I took a photo.
This portrait of 20 smiles and 40 painted palms d'ore worth 1000 words I value more than gold and diamonds dug from Sierra Leon shores.
I've been twisting and turning this rubicks cube with 80 tones of yellow tint attempting to match tiny squares into the image to keep her glow in physical print.
Vogue, Vanity Fair, nor Victoria's Secret have ever printed such a vixen that I envision.
Only universal variants of unreal women-
Vapor amongst paper.
I journeyed to admire every hue and once I finally found the picture, I discovered your dress was actually blue...
What I did with this piece...took me about 2 months to write. I wanted to make it a narrative-type joint. First off-this really happened to me. I kept thinking about a picture and in my mind and kept imagining the girl was wearing a yellow dress up until I finally found the damn picture. The dress was actually BLUE. The way I felt is what provoked this piece. I wanted the reader to picture the girl in this yellow dress and get to the end and be like "WTF!?" That's why I didn't add anything after the last line after I glorified the yellow. That type of cliffhanger feeling is what I had.
I didn't use a lot of rhyme scheme because that can take away from the picture. It's like-sacrificing what you really want to say just to make it flow. The incomplete lines and absence of rhymes give a sort of fragmented flow, which is what I felt when I tried to remember not only who the girl was, but also the color dress and why/when I got the picture. This also pays homage to Langston Hughes' poem "A Dream Deferred":
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
And also, the Palme D'or is the highest prize awarded to competing films at the Cannes Film Festival which my boy Quentin Tarentino won for Pulp Fiction.
"Say what again. SAY WHAT AGAIN. I dare you, I double dare you, motherfucker. Say what one more goddamn time."