Van Goh

My mind is something that hides

Not cast, because

cast suggests someplace where,

yet also

not for prepositions:

My mind is inside your mind.

Looking across the street to the Sunday strangers

walking over steps that

refuse to leave

foot prints,

there are puddles

and they

will

eventually

become steam.

In a window, each time I look,

there is a pain,

and beyond it

an art gallery

where you whispered “I love you”

to a woman

who you’d captured in shock

and there she soon 

began to melt.

And with each preview into you,

I’d notice two

somethings,

The first,

your eyes,

split to strain,

from an unbolted gaze,

where, my darling,

they might speak to the other:

“Oh depth of perception,

where have you been?”

The second,

my curiosity

as a running circus,

as the city

as the night

both of which

we find no time

for

any more.

And where I lament

is on the pen

being

the bigger coward here.

There

I said it,

but now that you’ve mentioned

my writing has since suffered.

Insomnia too,

may choke the brain

sometimes

pacing around

in the

empty room

above us,

as it corners death,

roaming the halls

of forgotten paths 

like 

unused

hospital beds

they’d abandoned

for trash.

And instead,

instead

I find myself

again

lost in a day dream

that’s set in

my mind

and in

this very room.

A white canvas depresses

vacuums

of energy from me

and together

we swallow colors from each other,

we

bounce

pills

down the throat

So that I might leave this place

that you might drag me

to the back yard

and shoot me where

you told me to stand.

For this

is the only way

of

truth telling

the only way of

explaining

the world away

with a simple action

with a simple

fact:  

There is nothing left in art.

Life is a flicker,

a mad

mad spark.

It’s luminous 

man made lines

are those that strain eyes

on the face 

of a framed-in boy

who stares deeper at me

in daze

and I stare back at him

with my

tall

painted

eyes.

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