|THE STARVED ARTIST (a dramatization)|
My barstool is granite.
Pale drink gripped in paint-stained fingertips,
weakened by the over-priced,
parading proudly by, so obvious to me.
All of them clucking silently
"you want to fuck me don't you?"
I search this room now for any inch of humor, any aching remnant of color not choked out
We used to laugh about those hideous things,
more power to you.
Or was that power to me?
Maybe, right now, I say nothing better.
I shake my head, three days dirty hair sticking to my forehead
I place my worn, thrifty sneakers shyly inward.
Searching for a sense of humor,
as your eyes fire at me,
shooting off every shade of emerald,
I try and shake your insecurity,
or at least see the severity of it.
Colors immerse me,
exuding from every pore,
transcending so gracelessly, obliviously obvious
as if their only purpose was for me.
I should jump off this stone stump,
dodge these dirty surroundings, and
thrust my arms dramatically around
the whole of you.
Though I conjure nothing.
My brain belches out only one thought,
with the intake of every inch of iris:
"I don't think I ever mixed that shade in art class before."
(comment on this poem)