Two streets down from broken:
his eyes are
all the bread he needs;
his mind all the fire
he breathes; his hands,
but a thimble of tonic
divining a mnemonic and thankless road
into visions other luminous numinous read
with eyes like wombs in their hearts,
spooling and unspooling his childlike,
There are drawings taped to his palms
of what life was supposed to be:
see how his shoes are his feet?
leaving inkblots of friends he’s forgotten—
left behind like autographs in the roads—
behind on a pavement, forgotton.
“What choice is there but to walk
leaving gifts at the side of the road
away from the spoils of war?”
He says to the jazzed up whore
skirting his Magdalene canvass
with one crooked finger,
as her eyes set hard
Watch, as he slips
into the deep holes in his mind,
as fashionable passers by regard him:
master and vagabond king!
“Oh, Hun,” Says one, “look at him—
he’s a genius;
he’s art itself!
Look at the way he moves, every breath is
a moment wasted. Quick,
grab his hands
before someone else does!”
There is art in the street blowing nowhere,
while he watches from his open loft window,
he is the only one
Roads were not made for walking,
they were made to be rivers of ink,
and sidewalks, for graffiti:
(Sinner, sinner chicken dinner
where Poet’s come hearty to tea:
they’re falling down wells, and after-hour hells
just so the blind can see)
Amethysts grow in the shallows,
shaking dead men from their gallows.
There are roads and then there are roads.
The artists were cut to be born
inside of a bare bulb room:
blinking in and out of the street
watching cars pass in the rain,
with eyes made of oil and stain.
© Kristin Reynolds 4 6 2011
Artists: we are an odd bunch.
(Or maybe it’s just this screwy poet who’s off her preverbial rocker) :)