3/15/11
I want to reflect upon your story
But the light shines too harshly.
All that white pierces my eyes.
Chopin’s Nocturnes hang overhead
Humming what cannot be said.
Your glare is muddled with fear.
Like so many others you draw
A conclusion wet and hanging
Unable to dry
In your dark, corner room.
The most beautiful magic of life
Has escaped your broken body
But there it lies in the clear water
Of your deep, blue pools.
When will you grow brave and restless
And go into the woods and stay there?
This skin must dry up and shed
Or stay limp and moist,
Cover up and hold hostage
Your rotting, internal love.
3/16/11
Woe is the artist who cannot sleep.
Dead is the sleeper who never dreams.
Like mossy vines my tendrils creep.
Jealous, they cling
But they can’t strangle concrete.
My body screams and weeps.
The sound of sex falls at my knees.
Still, tall and firm, I snap easily
Like a twig, surrendering,
Yielding my sap to admirers of Nature
Who cradle and rock my broken bones
Then drop me like a cat.
Thus, I write, I paint, I sing,
And I dream,
But simply as a means.
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