Tell me, stranger
– your eye amplifies me –
Are my words away though, as I hear them?
blown out damp as the night air.
It’s owned in my brain; tight
until I speak and ooze.
An ear of mine cranes, in exile – a dog.
It can not near the master’s voice
that creeps and climbs and peaks
at the white hair of your temple.
but not fight
in the lewd sun.
Bring down infamous rain;
the fingernail and the boot.
I will sit here. Tender.
But a still-life is a dead thing.
I saw one sit and never breathe again.
I paint corpses,
apples and such,
and the red ones dance
like they were paid.
It’s all in the head. They are dead.
And roll off the stage.