Being an artist means ceasing to take seriously that very serious person we are when we are not an artist. Jose Ortega y Gasset





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07 February 2013

Mendicant graceless unhinging


       Today I awoke without having slept



overhanging a promontory scented of urine-soaked grass and Fall 

thunder I spied Pallisades and yearned to swim to you,

my bug lips blue can take no more hypothermic needling

no supposed core



                    - cold caucuses wherein once nerves resided

          - instead of emptiness, scissored wealth undulates

outward - through my skin I sing of having had someone to love for,

though now only words mark our graves

I stand on stage without a line ringing true



          - do you fight the fading,

gradually put-down to doggerel destiny?

                         After I succumbed to stasia, you wend on to finish your

studies, purloining the intensities integral to most of our mutual inspirations

and loved again - those brown eyes

haunting, invigorating my longing with prescient lesions





     scouring bare even as you and they 

forgo memory of my dissolution, just as you pleaded to - I

will always have but blessings pouring out of your bulbous peak

your paltry evanescence forthright as daffodils