I keep a small pebble
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The box sits on a shelf in my closet
among scrapbooks and dust.
There is one less rock traveling
the sky. I saw it blister the riverbed,
a scarlet trail hissing behind it
before being extinguished
by the water’s numbing lips, which
through slow years of contact
polish the scarabs and birds of
hieroglyphics into unsaid words.
The last time we met
you blew a kiss into your hand
and threw it out of the car window
towards where I stood.
It went in my mouth and
rolled down my throat like moonshine.
A small seed of your ghost blistering
somewhere inside me, a scarlet trail
of incense hymns to Lazarus.
Here it is after years of coughing
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The whole universe is in there.
DQ 03/23/07
3/23/2007
3/03/2007
Multimedia in Canvas
I work on small sections at a time.
Crayons scribbles in a corner.
Round face stick figures smiling,
some of which have faded.
I weaved shoe laces and sewed
buttons on it, some which tore,
or fell where the canvas weakened.
Small little lies repaired, pasting colored
patches from other paintings on the rip.
I also pasted post-it notes in random
places. Some with names written
in pencil, some in ink.
Post-it notes fall. They stick to my shoe.
I drag them when I walk by, loose
them in the piss of public restrooms,
loose them in dog shit while I walk the dog.
In the center, oils, Alizarin crimsons,
Indian reds are tediously mixed. They
join with no line of demarcation.
They streak like blood spill, the
color of her lips.
One day I’ll complete the piece.
I’ll see it from behind held up to the light,
and forget where to find the artist’s signature.
DQ 3/3/7
Crayons scribbles in a corner.
Round face stick figures smiling,
some of which have faded.
I weaved shoe laces and sewed
buttons on it, some which tore,
or fell where the canvas weakened.
Small little lies repaired, pasting colored
patches from other paintings on the rip.
I also pasted post-it notes in random
places. Some with names written
in pencil, some in ink.
Post-it notes fall. They stick to my shoe.
I drag them when I walk by, loose
them in the piss of public restrooms,
loose them in dog shit while I walk the dog.
In the center, oils, Alizarin crimsons,
Indian reds are tediously mixed. They
join with no line of demarcation.
They streak like blood spill, the
color of her lips.
One day I’ll complete the piece.
I’ll see it from behind held up to the light,
and forget where to find the artist’s signature.
DQ 3/3/7
3/02/2007
The Beautiful
Woman standing by the podium
shirt rolled under your breasts
exposed belly stretched
an inch from birth.
You strike the lump
in the uterus with
fists and rage until you
become a living body bag.
You squat over the recycling bin
and drop another child.
God shed His grace on thee
and crown thy good with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea.
There he is returning home in uniform
with your flag over his casket
resting in the ancient silence of the womb.
DQ 03/01/07
shirt rolled under your breasts
exposed belly stretched
an inch from birth.
You strike the lump
in the uterus with
fists and rage until you
become a living body bag.
You squat over the recycling bin
and drop another child.
God shed His grace on thee
and crown thy good with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea.
There he is returning home in uniform
with your flag over his casket
resting in the ancient silence of the womb.
DQ 03/01/07
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