I watch with all my pores
that man who holds neglected galaxies
in his haunches and eyesight
impart love to the laundromat
and the lobster buffet
from his scorched windowsill
with most of his eyes closed
breezes aimed long at the sail
attaches fangs soft as snail antennae
who needs the local neon to bloom
on his devastation, pink attics
wavering in basement clouds
eggs fresh on the walls he stares
out from a force-field of blue paint smoke
on the limbs of a clicking tree
6 comments:
This is incredible!
Oh my. I hope you're right...thank you.
I snapshot with drawing reflex the scrubbly grinning poet, framed by pointy moon-fingers and false windows. He strums a yellow guitar erratically and the horrid magical CRT lights him up in blue, tinging a pink hat in opposites. I don't have my pastels here, dammit. Somebody throws an egg on the wall.
Kataklysmic!
Blue guitar, my mistake.
It's okay to change the color of the guitar to yellow...Pablo Neruda and Wallace Stevens have already written about blue guitars, anyway...
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