The radio beats it's wings against the damp air of twilight
and the mauve maneuvers of the jagged stars, clutching the velveteen enigma of the heavens.... sprawling glorious and pin *****
above the glum slumber of our myriad eyes... go brightly.
a dazzling display of power that has no mind. The divine agenda
of the unknowable engines of grace.

From the porch, I spy the worlds
tumbling from their Ether to my Zodiac. I smoke a blunt tool
to hammer back the incessant noise of the mundane...
And a wave carries me to a rich oblivion
fecund with Life's sumptuous joy... and the very different perfume
of brain dead angels, spreading my ashes over -
unkempt lawns.

I retire to my room, where the canvasses tick unanointed
like white bombs and nothing can dissuade me from the truth of them.
Painting your face is like scratching a balloon.
It will burst. And I will weep.
And Time will not stop.
For the Lack of You.

But the brush will never leave my hand.

And that will have to do.