Mask Like A Face

I wear my mask like a face; rough as coconut husk
I aspire to be a sapphire and to never need to be apologized for
On the carpet staining scarlet, my heart turns itself over in my chest
Like jewels in my hand, my little emerald tablets
They spill on the floor and look like teeth of a Hollywood smile
In store front reflections, I don’t see myself, just a ghost
Not rattling chains but chain-smoking and talking about his bitch wife

He asks me why I am an artist
I say, what else was I to do with all this pain?
My dark seeing eye, my near seeing eye
My fear seeing eye, my far-seeing eye
The silver sliver and the scorching yellow sit atop my nose
They conversate about how they used to be gods
How they made the waves and then made them hot

I swallow an oxycodone diamond and drop my curtains
Who has time for a To-Dos list with such a long To-Don’ts list
I tried to sort out my skeleton until I found I was boneless
I mended my socks and folded my laundry
I tended to my lovers and lied, saying, I will return
The marginal amount of hashish you left in my dad’s car
But I won’t, I will wear my face like a mask
All my friends will say I look like a stranger

I will tell fortunes with potpourri merchants
I will grow fruit trees in a manger and listen to the soil
I will never be myself too long, never let myself get too ripe
A head too right is left without spaces to fill
The organs of an artist are rusted church organs; at their best


Published at Twenty Two Twenty Eight