|May 2003 / Volume Four / Issue Two|
|Response to His Poem “This Is Not the Day I had painted”
Only a trio of trickster gods could rustle up such a gust, stirring dried-up globs, blood and rust, down in the gully of your unconscious, turning leftover color, guilt and fear, into flurries that suggest you are unworthy, fabricating gross, insidious furies who accuse, you don’t deserve, and blast their awkward sabotage across the canvas– eruptions of lava, insecure, that scald the landscape with old coals, heated debris you did not mean to sear the dearest–
the one who would have painted–
the day you most desire.
|Return to May 2003|