PAINTING THE STILL LIFE
I did not see you come in, not enter,
either doorway. Both doors have a squeak,
so I am surprised. Place your scarf down on
the table; it can double as our cloth. I am
painting here a portrait of Rabelais in green -
green I said - like the same color as our world,
though I know you would say money, no matter.
They've said our world is blue from space -
I wouldn't know, but their minds were set on
that conclusion before they started. I've noticed
reality tends to conform to assumptions; if you
do this the way you should, right about now the
Moonlight Sonata should begin playing. In all that
deep silence there should be something. The deep,
the deep, and I have given up.
-
Trying. Trying to hope, hoping to try, not ever knowing.
Where will I be two days from now? I'm figuring to be
somewhere distant. This silence in the morning is tough -
and there are better reasons we would have to speak then
to remain like this - aloof and mute..
-
People who are riding herd are doing so with ropes
and ideas - one to work with, the other to hang
themselves with. And, yes, there is always a
perfection in such a masterpiece as this.
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