Some days you can only paint in blacks,
midnight, sage, mulberry sometimes—
the shades of rotten meat. An artist
can only make of what is given.

Some days smearing violent
Crimson, scarlet, florid visions
is not enough. A painting is a mind
captured by a moment. But moments pass.

One day riotous chartreuse,
vermillion, the full spectrum waltzing
across your iris will not fatigue you. You
will brush dawn across your skin.

Some find it harrowing, their life/
is (a mere footnote in others’ histories)
but I open a thrift-book, thumb the blueink
musings, in awe of this realization:/
an act of compassion is a blooming feeling, one that imbues (you and another) with the surest sense of existential peace—for these moments I live.

Tiny silver fish writhe,
pavement, iridescent brushstrokes
sun's left, this dreary city
proving visions, mere mirages
metallic bursts of light
on a rain-soaked Ave,
They're not the
only culprits, forging upstream
against nature, against reason
not knowing how or why, or
what lie can I make this time?
what can strip me
of the binds of subsistence? To
whom is this even addressed?
What fame? Glory? could be achieved
as the mire consumes me. ha. I've
been ****** into a puddle
of outbursts, deception
mere mirages,
vision swimming vision swimming vision
swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming vision swimming
You sink into dust. I follow.

your indignant snow seemed
so wasteful,
so condemned:
i remembered
your halo calming me as
the stage lights trembled;
i remembered your unabashed
stillness, the defenceless apathy of
corpses—

you lay wan,
abject, an object of
blank disposability,
howling in the roundness
of dust.

How does one overcome/
That sense/ ./of loneliness:
every second           /I tread
the grave of a past/self...
/have you a             piece/
of your heart,   empty/.
being /chewed up and
spat out/ by carrion birds

Indigo and midnight. /Lustrous
Violet blooms like blood trapped/
pillow beneath your skin,:
tearing away leaving you
open,/for them to crawl
inside, but you learn to live/
With the worms just below
your surface, you learn—
To love the itch, for that acute
terror brings you comfort/.

/your                  love is a
flimsy wick/
I,—         a /ready gust....