Blue & Bluer
Munch saw a screaming sky
in what I may have seen as an unwritten poem,
that gnarled viscera
of apocalyptic heaven.
Artists do it all the time;
assign pain to what simply exists
because we exist & feel so much pain.
& then all I can think about are sailboats
peeking out from behind the rubble of ruined light
because I’m living in February today
& no one can stop me.
It is an importance. Harmonious
solely because of theory.
If I am sitting on a chair in a picture,
I am not sitting on a picture of a chair.
So yes, please clarify. The words matter.
“Patriarch” should be the name of a beautiful bird.
I would put out seeds & nectar for her.
She would stay only until she is full.
Which invites the next quandary:
What is a man? Why must he stare like that
down his nose at impostors like me?
Dancing is a funny way of living,
but it’s the kind of practical chaos I survive for;
two-straws-in-one-milkshake type shit,
songs fading jaggedly into other songs.
I’m a streaky fabric marker of a boyfriend,
which would make you a cheap cotton shirt
if I bothered to follow the metaphor through.
Pathos is a Pisces rising’s favorite sport.
Privacy is I was naked alone but she happened to be there.
I mean this on all sides. She was happening,
my favorite movement.
Fear doesn’t happen twice, more or less.
It is euphoria anyway. I flatten for outside,
play catch with my breath in the backyard.
When the scream of nature pierced me,
I did not paint it,
but right now I’m writing the poem.
Light fades to blue
& bluer, bluet & blur,
all in a day’s good work.
The lawn is disorder.
An orange tree bloomed, watered of future.
I am only singing.
I hold a temporary hand.
The eyes are wide
as abandoned cities,
as a pair of eyes proceeding.
How close I hold the hand.