She always laid out her paints
right before bed.
The oils nustled up against her thighs.
Some of them,
cradled in tiny white baths of containers,
lay in the open space
of her folded legs.
"Just in case, something hits me in a dream, I want to wake up and run and be ready at the right moment."
The carpet is rough
and stained with the shrapnel of dry paint
that *****
your soles
when you walk through
the living
room
to the
pale kitchen,
while she gurgles and
pops
in her sleep.
All the time,
the paint gets on the floor,
she paints in thrusts.
"You're going to have to pay for this mess, you know,
I'm not paying to have this carpet cleaned,
it's not my ****."
Condescension and guilt
spread through your lips
numbing you
in a fog of arrogance,
that you perceive
as good-natured caution,
while she hurts the canvas
thrusting harder.
She
paints
clowns.
Tall, fat clowns,
with long tentacle fingers,
bellies
out to here,
and tiny people
curling in black oily slicks at the corners
under the pressure of the clowns.
"Why the **** do you always paint clowns?"
"Why can't you just let me be?
you don't know anything about art."
The bed
is tiny.
***
is soft,
methodical
and
pre-emptive.
"I'm tired of stepping on your paint at night,
I'm tired of my feet
looking like a rainbow."
One night,
you come home smelling
like grease and fried chicken.
Your button-down
with the slippery gold name-tag
is dabbed
in the chest by leaves of oil
and
shadowed in the armpits
by
strokes of sweat.
Your manager kept talking about:
"You need to improve
your checkout efficiency,
you've been lagging lately."
Dropping the heavy black
flak jacket
with it's flare of orange lining
on the floor,
You see her,
with her arsenal of paints
arrayed at her criss-crossed
limbs
like the implements
of
a war.
She looks up
at you,
black circles
under her eyes,
an easel
holding up
a canvas of almost minsicule drippings of fabric.
"Oh,
I see you're still there,
great."
You walk to the kitchen
and open the fridge,
there's a half-gallon
of 2% left.
An apple
slowly crumpling into itself.
And a bottle
with a swig of orange juice left in it.
***** always leaves a swig.
You take the bottle up to your mouth and swallow down a trickle that you can feel in your bones.
"Don't drink from the bottle."
she says
with a nodded head.
"I can do what I want,
I bought it."
She looks up.
The clowns
she says:
"Are the type of people
that gain power,
the ones ruling the world,
the ones who become *******."
You laugh like an idiot
"People like me."
"No, you're not a clown,
you're one of the tiny ones."
"*******."
You want to wash yourself
of the stink.
Drain it all down into the gutter,
let the stink
sit there.
So you take a shower,
while she stares at the white cartridges
of paint,
and a conflict brewing.
Kind of a rough draft for a short story idea. Usually a story starts out as just a stream-of-consciousness poem for me. So, here it is.