Tuesday, March 08, 2011


I can't write about me.
Can't put pen to paper and let
my dark blood flow like ink.
Or let my thoughts unfurl and
congeal on the blank sheet.
So I stub myself out along
with the blue-gray smoke
and write about you instead.
You seem to emerge from
those ashes slowly piling
high in the cheap white mug.
And you float like an apparition
in front of me. Revolving in the
light of the table lamp.
I make you run through meadows
or sob desperately in despair.
Or I let you make love in the bright pink
afternoons amidst dancing sun rays.
You are pale flesh with quiet
blue veins and raven hair.
You are slightly watery big eyes
and biting nervous lips.
You are the smell of fading perfume
and stale white wine drunk too fast.
You are an arching back, red
painted toes and freezing finger tips.
You are love, you are insanity.
You are art, you are profanity.
You are the face I often see
fleetingly in large crowds
Or sometimes in my crowded dreams.
And those are the times it seems,
I write, I write about us.