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Painting

Once committed it's best to be able to mean it backward, forward, in the morning and at night when no one's looking at all. When left standing alone. Left to fend for itself in a world full of critics who are looking for the perfect opportunity to palpitate for any signs of vulnerability.

Lightheadedness in my creations. A weakening integrity in the structure of the wood that will enable its spectators to move from Scorpio into Sagittarius. Magnetic. Easily moved. And normally quick to detect insult. Reckless and indifferent to the consequences of actions who are fearless on canvas.

Merciful. In search of charm, forthrightness and optimism in plaid. Tartan. Intersecting stripes rarely acknowledge imprudence. Reserve is the new dope and I suck. Smoke and fire back politely. Like a firm stroke of the Winsor and Newton brush. Each with a very specific command.

Yet no one has ever been able to fake an orgasm on canvas or their personal preferences for blue. A color that doesn't take up time with just any ole color, nor mess over all of the other colors on and off the palette, until it gets to the one that it wants. Nor courts the other colors at random; quite frankly because he's got absolutely nothing else better to do. Nor hangs on for what he can squeeze out like blood. From a respectable work of uncircumcised genius.

Together. Hue and clamor guarantee a pretty good cause that'll eventually lead to accolades from the public. Then Banning. And even authenticity, ownership and libel litigation. Which are perfectly fine, just as long as they don't prevent the composition from getting over.

#18

The holidays were restless before they'd nestled in completely like snow flirting with the threat of thunder at high noon. The length of the wind's skin began to mature outside like antlers who would eventually invade like branches. Limbs who crushed through these walls that I call home.

Some of the ornaments rolled out from beneath teenage ruins and lit up like parts of me on the eve of Xmas but it didn't stop there. The other half made off with an assortment of tidings that would soon melt into insolence. And now that same silence finds new ways of taking up time this season; the same way that we use to any ole' time of year.

When we were most guilty of holding out. It was always those uptown gift shops that were after us and so our eyes were confined by the looking glass instead. Expectation stored inside of their foreign pin ups for far too long.

A face clouded by sadness. Cooling memories of you. They eventually went away without leaving any permanent or visible scars tattooed on my imagination. But if we listen close enough we'll see that the looking glass loved us and gave us back our bodies.