You stare at a black box
You say you like it better this way
Where the disconnect
Cannot affect

Troubled by this regurgitating behavior of  
Reducing our senses to sight
Because we barely listen

The box doesn't stare back
A disease lies hidden underneath
Asking permission to speak

She pulls the wires from her wrists
Audible pops
Like octopus suction cups
come from her brain

Shocks like jellyfish
And static
sizzle sizzle
In her eyes

Her lips on mute
Like she is the device

"If some people like your painting, fine.
If some don't, well, there's the door.

Take your work seriously
But don't take yourself seriously

Paint for yourself
Enjoy yourself"

I was watching a show on PBS today
"The Beauty of Oil Painting" with Gary & Kathwren Jenkins

Gary said this and I marveled at how much this echoed the attitude we should cultivate when writing poetry.

You told me that if you drink
before 10 A.M. you were a pirate
not an alcoholic.
But pirates don’t drive,
they sail.
They smoothly sail.
And as the Captain,
abiding by the code,
you went down with your ship
but then again,
you washed up in a jail cell.

© Matthew Harlovic

See.                    I'm.                                
No- ­                     fi-                                   I  
   thi                   ne.                             was
     ng                  I'm.                        up
        is    ­            Go-                   rea-
          wro-          od,                 lly
               ng.      Okay            late.
           I had a snack before I came.
             The.                              I'm
       make.               I'm                Just
up.                          Not         ­         Tired.
Makes.                  Broken                      I    
      ­ Me                                           Don't
           Look.                                 Feel
                   pale.                Well.
                   Yesterday was great
              I just.          I'm            I just
          Had.                Ha-            Like
      A bad.                ppy.               The
Sleep.                                               Style.

These are the threads
Of my web of lies
That I build above your heads
Strenghth ending everyday

My common day lies
Spun like spiders silk
Drifting unbroken in the skies
So plain it stands hidden

Entwined strings of excuses
To form a mask from the world
With a million uses
To fake that I am whole

Because I am the spider
Creeping through the day
Dangling off silk as my web grows wider
Trapping all the flies