poem: the painting written: 8:45 p.m. on Friday, Jan. 28, 2005
The Painting
Paintbrushes cut when their bristles toughen turn lethal, become tiny blades; i sweep it across my face, the mirror as my witness and the pain doesn�t hurt.
At times, emptiness becomes that non-feeling when the skin should react, but doesn�t as if perpetually waiting, with bated breath, for something fantastical to occur.
What does it expect? the stars to fall from the sky? but who can believe in stars anymore when the light that keeps them alive has been cruelly devoured by humanity�s collective cynicism
that preys and paws at unsuspecting faces clearly visible, in the dark, from a vast distance? A mere blackhole remains now: where an ethereal painting should be,