Great luck, I must have
For your gallery came in view.
There laid a similar face
That at dawn, my mirror drew.

I looked at every nook and cranny,
Even zoomed in the pitted dust.
By hook or crook, as they say
With every measure I must.

I saw no pictures there,
No proof of your presence at all.
Only your name echoed
In antique cups and dusty hall.

Yet I knew it was yours,
My devotion wasn't merely a cue.
Here I gloss at just your name
In this Gallery made for You

Words melt in the walls
Covered in paintings
Made of you
Made of me
Yours are beautiful
Careful strokes
Each of such precise yet casual calmness
The motion of your hands
They swing and move in such ways of a ballerina
Ones of a mother easing her child to a deep sleep
They recreate a sky that took so many billions
To become one of which it is now
You bring it into your own reality within moments
The lovely lights glow on a cotton canvas
Making music with the latex
darkening what's surrounding it
But me?
Mine are ugly
I leave rotting flesh in the daylight
Spred the shine of blood and paste the teeth of past fighters, veterans
They form the sight of ****** tires leaving streaks on asphalt
The animals that peel off roads, screaming with one last breath
in through your nose, out through your mouth
I'll hold you close and speak
"Let it melt in your mind"
"spit it out and light it up"
lets do it
together
we can burn the truth
Then we can take the melted remains
And make a balanced gallery
A museum made for 2

as the foghorn blows for the third time
i ask the question once again …
where lies the hands of power
and bringing consciousness back into my material being
i find two hands that look very much
like my own

nomind, i don’t mind

i thought i was a thinker
but Rodin proved me wrong
he bronzed the thinker

after pondering on that
while observing the foot traffic
at the gallery for a long moment …

i wondered:
as an observer of the observers
am i hunter or prey?

daughters of pageant queens
like them you
             want
          me
       to
   be

i come from a broken gallery
on display for
                           no
                               one
                                      to
                                           see

A sky of painted rain from custard yellow clouds, fell beyond my gallery window glass.

The grass a silken thread of cinnamon fire, vermillion and orange tea brewed strong and hot, which ran to choppy rivers damson plum and vintage flowing wine, stretched far beyond my own imagining
to boiling seas of unknown hue.

Did a morning ever dawn which held such colour and such light, If so it isn’t one I ever knew!

Wineglass

An hour to midnight
     low lit lights
     gentle undertones

    stained clouds of moisture
in a glass of wine
as thick
         as ripe layers of fog.

hums of symphonies,
          swells of low pitched voices,
              crescendos of conversation.

     murmurs, whispers of fine China
      and the newest editions of
       oil paintings from Italy

                                      Midnight at the gallery

Once
clear glass, stained with
lipstick and breath --
     Laughter, light and
     undertones of ripe berry
lingered on the tip of glass.  

eyes wandering
over canvases of
lavish art
While stained clouds
of  moisture

are as thick as
ripe layers of fog.