Another Beautiful Day

 · 

Another Beautiful Day


I am,
once again,
re-creating
what has yet to be created.


Beauty
and madness
weigh in,
mastering the end game on my own.


Crawling
into the crucible,
dissolving in the fire,
rising with out mercy.


Memory
serves then
that the chain
of miracles moves laterally.


There
are memories
inside of memories
that I have not even begun to unpack.


It is
where I belong
in this distopic frenzy
of guilt and regret.


An afternoon,
scented with love
and murder
spies silently by.


Tonight though,
I will speak with
the sickle moon
as well as up and down,


About laundry
rose petals and
a blinking light
on the trajectory of my needs.


Independent
of courtesy or rage
I come to you as a blended charcoal
portrait of a moonlight reflection in a pond.


Some of my statements
are unquestionably true like I love you
yet others are
undeniably false like I hate you.

This is proof of the artistry.


I am a warrior.
Words of longing and suffering,
joy and passion, that I don't claim to own.

But, somewhere I do.


Belle de Jour

I am a Renaissance man
Extreme in any case
Getting my coat tails caught :in:         an elevator
Going up.


As if clovers were diamonds,
making a sound like my cat makes
 Kshhhhh
I *dis*agree with your method.


I am a model citizen
My name is Sally
.of imaginary Italian descent.
I am your connection.


Seven steps to heaven
 [belle du jour]
shimmers and smokes
like Kabuki actors.


I am the star ====
of my own imaginary theater
as an artist works in pain(t)           or language
pulling magic out of the air.

Like Kabuki actors,
feeling the lid of the sky lift,
being able to breathe at last.

I am smoke. 


Lovers who kill each other now will blame it on the wind,
The warm Santa Ana wind.

The king of hearts and the children of paradise
-also bandits in Mexico-
are [like] my tortilla miracle but nobody knows.
ink Japanese cranes.


See the complete picture,
remake the world of                           breathing monkeys
<understand>
the true nature of poisons.


Shadow puppets *
an artists stare
detail detail detail
What is beauty?

Unused, like a hammer or a key.
Something for other people to use and admire
or envy and despise.


Painting the doorknobs with poison
poison for love endless.

I don't like anyone to touch me
one book whispered to me.
I don't either I whispered back.


Except for perfect divine love 

I have a hunger for beauty
 a bent for cruelty
my scarred life.

Even present loss
 love like a song I'd heard once in a dream 


Will someone love us one day?

Show us what beauty means.
My soul is like a dark cathedral
hymns pouring out
softly mimicking

Another time
Another place
a place where innocence
cherished unknowing.


A tall white bird
 from a Japanese wood-cut
 sang to the secret river
about the perfumed air
that is more precious than wisdom.


My favorite flavor is raspberry.
 I love the smell of dill pickles.
 My favorite color is periwinkle blue
when I have used up all the pink.


I long for a gentle touch
 but no one touches me
no one calls to me
no one cries for me.

I cry alone. 


The sweet breath -alive-
seduced in the late snow.
It is a subtle crime.

The way you have stolen my soul.
 If you could taste me
 it would be a metallic bloody sound
like a nightstick on a crowded street.

Striking the ;lamp post;
to make the light come back on. 


Days and days of wasted particles.

Seduced by the colors of the believers,
 sent away, just a step before me now.
Elegant lies
milking the last reckoning from me.

Can you see what you have done to me?
What you have stolen from me?
My soul empty now
from the music of your colors.


Elegant lies of shapes and forms
Just because it sounded good
doesn't mean it wasn't true.
 What is the right of beauty?

Nothing. 


Certain truths
 like geometry or physics
midnight like diamonds

My heart is a giant hole
 in the fabric of existence. 


Don't cry for me
 battle worn blue me.

The endless night the bottomless dark
the empty hole that is me now.
 I have created a me from what I have learned.
The artist is the phoenix that burns to emerge.


We are not even remotely like everybody.
We are liquid sound and metal rain.
I am fragile, my dear, though my bone megaphone
blasts fearless symphonies.

I cry for the light that hides like the moon in a cloud. 


The enormous white eye of the sky is blind to
the one beautiful thing.
A requiem mass for lucidity.

If I didn't draw, what reason
would there be for birds eyes,
for the sparkle in the paradise
of my glittering disparity.


I have learned the secrets of survival 

 Who are the Fates?

Who are the Graces? 


At last, we are each our own.