The Artist
A poem
I
Morning is not his favorite thing.
First thing: He sees letters upon letters,
Words upon words warping into
Subjects upon subjects becoming
Objects, in ethereal plane,
Zooming-in as little arrows,
Piercing into his cranial edge,
Puncturing the mass of atoms in his brain.
That’s just the way he is.
II
Once, ten passed two, he’s on the go.
Stencils on his left, canvas on his right.
His rattan-made hat covers half of his face.
His vigor visibly dictates, as he sways sideways.
He continues his struts to the paradise hut.
In front of it, he warms up,
He raises his head, and whimpers at the sun.
Then he scans the vastness of the ocean.
That’s just the way he is.
III
More often than not,
His lability gets in the way.
Like rockets thrusting into his stressors,
While his consciousness is seemingly
Somewhere between here and there,
Where reality and absurdity merge.
He needs his ancile to…
