The Poet Paints the Artist

Pastel curves grace the canvas.
Each brushstroke brings from blank nothing
beauty of innocence.
But underneath the soft spring colors
lies... lies the intensity and passion, the loving hand
of the artist shapes her from his mind
(Shakes her from his mind?)
No vivid gouache or bold contrasts betray
his heated mind. He forces cool.
He forces detachment.
He forces distant admiration.
But the pastel curves still grace his canvas
(and coals glow softly behind his eyes).

Snippets of Mania, recovered: 2005

1. one more time, Jack.
Send in the communists, they'll know what to do.
Protect the innocent, punish the unclean.
Unravel the ancient design, the dirty fabric of space-time
ending up where it all went down.

2. Oh Nikolai, why have you forsaken me?

3. divine dementia, demiurgal urge to
create, to simulate and procreate

4. "Kidnap me. Sound it out, (it's beautiful). Command it. Plead it."

5. "We're a generation with no goals--no future. Not because we're lazy, but because history has no place for us."

6. "... in the unfortunate but likely event that the sun will rise tomorrow..."

7. --in my flowers a locust sleeps
he slept in-- I forgot to wake him up.
Maybe he will sleep until after
I'm dead and it won't matter
and he can't get mad at me
because locusts have this thing where
they can't get mad at dead people.

8. "Dean Martin is a dinosaur's pimp."

9. "Brackackack," cried the lobster.