a portrait of the artist
with endless cups of some variety of vodka watermelon drink
in a basement apartment with ants crawling up and down
the walls
even so bold as to be found in his pajamas
no one cares, and no one needs to
looking young for his age
but showing his hand behind the eyes
yellowed and deadened
cynical from the mouth always
older than ever
these last ten years
always craving all of the time
nothing else to do
but paint words pretty
nothing else to do but smoke cigarettes and look
out at the stoic sky for answers to questions
he's too afraid or too dumb to ask
like it always is here, it comes to this:
a woman.
but this one is exceptional
and he is in deep
and exposed
wide open, probably too soon with the notions of "love" and "truth"
as he sees them
so
another expensive cigarette later
one more half tethered together moment
of clarity
one TINY bit more of drink and it will
all come together for him
like he hopes that it will
every night
close enough to the
sun as not to burn surely but
sun as not to burn surely but
with the knowledge that this time will be final and figured out
and things will go as things should
like they always should have gone,
well
full of potential
and promise forever
well
full of potential
and promise forever
Stumbling, struggling down the 5 red steps
downward into his home
underground
cut off again
cut off again
he drags his feet to the refrigerator
pours one more
the ice cubes swirl around in the glass
staring up at him as he does the blue black evening every night
just as unfeeling
and it keeps repeating
