Here is a Red Prince
With flaming hair and flaming lips
Elegant tango footsteps and
Nimble logician mind—
He wants to be good, feel good, do good
And the Good Fairy came and
Tapped the bravado with a magic wand:
With paupers shoes and
Paupers hair and with
Paupers food, the dandy was found
Beneath an apple tree.
What is this disrespect, this disgrace
Proclaims the disgruntled,
I am a man of the world.
Dis is the world.
My greatest friend and strength
Let us wallow for awhile
In this boring blank page
They say the world is not boring
Only the operator.
The locusts of the living rose and
Consumed this flower
Leaving only scorching sand.
What do I want
I know what this agitated mind says
It flogs a bazaar worth of trendy shticks
With always endless salesman numbered reason:
fuzzy and sharp, and painful and soft
Shall I name them like my wrinkles.
This agitated mind wants care
A creature like me.
How wrong for me to neglect and encourage
Five fingered discounts, backhanded tricks.
Why has it got to be so mean
Does it not know I am human, too?
What is this bizzare paucity of dust
This room has lost a layer
And donned a clean new suit
Pulsing a symbolic imposition to
Be a man of motion.
How cleanliness does demands respect
In peeling back the dirt
A bit of the once settled mind goes too
Out with the scraps.
Artists love to dally on the
strength of space.
A clean surface is a strong
Magnetic vacuum of the only just
The cleaning has emptied
Then filled with possibility.
Erasers are erasing of line,
Erasers are filling of space:
Space a magnetic invitation to fill.
What is this slip of paper
That has slipped under my skin
Routed through the nerves, and
Posted right to my heart?
At the time of night
Between tired and fatigue
Is a lulling twilight where
Monochrome cookie cutter habits
Yield just a bit, letting
New shapes populate the space:
Triangles set to overwhelm the squares
Backlogged icing given time
To crisscross in roaming paths.