aayoung
I am honored to be included in this publication, published by Monsieur Sebastien Doubinsky. It is a stunning collection of poetry, prose, photography, and visual art, featuring artists and writers from several countries. Please enjoy this free download of the ebook on lulu.com, and thank you for viewing my blog.
http://www.lulu.com/shop/various-authors/zaporogue-xvi/ebook/product-22035478.html
Perhaps God
is a temperamental visual artist,
who is perpetually
dissatisfied with his earthly work,
so he just keeps adding more
bloody paint,
shards of garbage,
and odd designs
to trash the damned thing?
i’ve painted all of it
on the ceiling of the library dome in alexandria
to study the profane scope
better understanding the history
the higher i ascend
through falling ashes
this is what i know
my interpretation of the pattern
you only acknowledge the sacred
as you seek to destroy it
you’re sick
pathological
oh
how
you take such pride in your trophies
heads mounted on the wall
all wearing your mother’s pearls
the manner in which your
opossum eyes delight
in fresh kill
wax romantic about your bloody left hand
as you arrange dead flowers
i’m impervious ever since
you gouged out my ability
to experience pathos
i knew he would still live in the same place
an apartment that inhabits him
as much as he inhabits it
the wood framing is made of his bones
crystal door knob
a part of his hand
tall windows
open his eyes in the morning
hand cranked ringing doorbell
and a call on the phone
asking him to come down the stairs
out of thin air
he agreed
his hanging up click
became descending footsteps
he opened his door to long ago me
i handed over the painting he asked for
nearly a year before
monochromatic
cincinnati in winter
with summer blues
saying a promise was a promise
his eyes became
sweet
soft
the way they used to be
regarding me
he said
you must be cold
i told him i had parked in a snow bank
i needed to go grab coffee
i couldn’t stay
because we never last that long
but the smile on his face as we turned away
restored my faith
in the possibility of spring
the perverse hand of ruin
has raised my skirt
too many times
i should know better
than to look the monster in the eyes
my nightmare
has become
the manner in which i make my living
and
that which makes me passionate about living
are in direct opposition
my vengeance takes the shape
of william blake’s
“Death on a Pale Horse”
go make yourself ready
soon
i shall burn the sky
there are no words for this death
so i turn to paint
pulling all my unfinished canvases
from their easels
laying them supine on a concrete floor
casting endless spools
of prism violet and primary victim blue
to reflect my flesh eternal
the color of a bruise
my sun striped shoulders
think the sky
is not worth painting today
the dishes need no attention
as they sit cleanly stacked
white as roman senators
with no judgments to levy
from their cabinets
ah but my pen
my pen
she wishes to dance this day
into the past
along the lines
of a dance floor page
16 X 20 acrylic on canvas
