Saturday, October 04, 2003
I am muted by these colors,
Painted into a mutant
Has-been wannabe, who am I?
Lines have so many meanings.
Colors so light and so dark.
What is this bereft thing doing?
Faking? what is fake? Is the poem
a joke, did the painting
Make you cringe? Where am I?
In a studio or a study;
at book or easel or blog,
When am I who I am?
How will I know the moment?
Doubts beat out from a strobe
In the ceiling. Is this a migraine?
Is this surfeit or want?
Am I rich, am I destitute,
And will money ever be the subject?
Either way. Any way. When I am slapped
About the head and bones. Rotisseried
Like a nice rump roast. Bored and less,
Sick of my pastimes, wondering why.
Once again why...but why
Don't I get off my ass and move?
Who am i, what am i
A picture's worth
I stand on the sand, and I'm rocking grief to sleep in my arms.
Comments by: YACCS