The city buskers don't speak til six;
After they've stored the aluminum paint,
Their instruments packed,
The clever boxes stacked,
The clink of coins counted.
Now ready for a pint, a blink and stretch.
Flame spitters, robots, Victorian mannequins,
Chimney sweeps, a Little Bo Peep,
All muted on the street.

On the steps I asked,
Which one are you?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
Yeah, said I, I know what you mean.
I did the same for thirty years.

(A perfect metaphor, thought I).

No, really, I continued, What's your gig?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
He wasn't being poetic.
Here's a man who stands on his head in a bucket, I said,
More than once.
So many do this on their feet,
Hearing the echo of their own voice,
Shutting off our daily travails
In an insular pail,
Seeing one's reflection distorted,
With little involvement.
He said he learned his trade
Watching the pigs on his father's farm,
And perfected his talent
Watching CNN.

she stares on an empty sky,
all birds sailing to the other side.
she gazed at this one tree,
broken twigs and no more leaves.
Her feet's taking her,
maybe to the wilds?
or somewhere she can go away and hide.
The ***** footsteps made her this far
on a blanket of white snow,
the song of northern mockingbird
filled the space
enormous silver birches turned to ice
she wondered how solitude could be this sublime

Looking back at photos of me looking happy
A nice slim figure
No extra weight to carry
No face to be ashamed of

I have a house with no mirrors
Because I get disgusted by myself
When I happen to see a glare in a window
I only feel tears

"I'll call you sometime," he says as leaves.
That will never happen, ive so many times learned
He looked repulsed when he saw me
And my stomach just turned

Even my family feels hopeless
That one day I'll look lean
Around the table aouside we relaxed.
Later They hint I'm too fat
On my fat giant ***, the chair too small where I sat

Diets and cleanses
Jogging and biking is pointless
As fat just seems to add
I just get more sad


Nobody knows in the dressing room I cry
After rejection I sob
After a meal I feel guilty
When I breathe and I live
It seems so silly

But maybe one day I'll be happy and skinny
I won't be alone, eating won't feel like I'm sinning
So the mirrors that I threw out
The pants that are huge
The face disgustingly ugly
The way I look, I have no excuse.

THE ARTIST'S SOLILOQUY*

I reproduce the world
in pictures
man in himself
in life
and in the universe
this eternal inter-play
is the sanctum
of all my works

I am a visionary
(a humble one
but no less sensitive)
I cry more than I laugh
as the world is the place
where mankind's tears fall
without end
due to man's own making

the heart desires
what it should not
for things
that don't sanctify
but man is weak
and morally falls
too easily
and drowns
in the nameless sea

nature weeps
for the callousness and greed
of man
who has her beauty defiled
and marred

progress
what progress?
it's just the breeding-ground
of greed and indifference

bulldozers knock
down the trees
chemicals pollute the seas
grasslands and fields
are sacrificed for construction
land has turned into concrete--***** and ugly

as I paint
my heart
is heavy-laden
and I ask
over and over again
what has happened to man?