painter's block

there are three of them:

painting boards,
18x24,
gessoed white.

like three rectangular eyeballs rolling,
scoffing from my dining room table.
and i'm supposed to paint them.

but i don't know how

to ask the colours what they mean;
to wander in fields of abstraction
and find my balance;

to trace the edges of shadows and
hold them up to the light
like a gift.

i'm a photo-realism kind of grown-up

and i've forgotten how to play.
to believe in what i cannot see
until it becomes art:

sock feet waltzing across living room rug;
wrinkled hands splashing bath tub bubbles;
voice warbling songs never before sung.

it's time to finger-paint.


















wandering over to emily's place

11

an eleven punctuates the space between my eyebrows...

it's a mark aging beauties consider slathering or injecting or lifting away.

but try as they may, they can't erase

this gravity

and neither can i.

so tonight, while this furious little mark etches itself

in front of a space filled with questions and exclamations,

i'll take it as a reminder that

this gravity

isn't forever.

but i am.

my beautiful friend cut her hair.  you should see her now!