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.
Will stay
but not fight
embarrassment
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.
Feb 26
