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