Made face with the carver today.
Carpenters and sculptors sat by and
watched as I manipulated
and he mutilated.
It was our masterpiece.
Our b-b-broken fragments were fantastic.
The altogether wonderfully
empty expression and beautiful,
bold, bleak blankness were a
Fuck perfection, I had thought.
Fuck this polished window that shows me
the horrific grin in my reflection.
THE HORRIFIC GRIN IN MY CONCEPTION.
Changed the water in the tin today.
Blew the ripples across the skin where
hundreds of tiny black floaters squirmed,
so lucky to be fallible.
Flew out of a window to catch up
with that scent,
pleasantly drifting skyward to
a gentle raindrop bombing.
Spiraling downward away from resentment, never
p-p-paled in comparison to another.
All the thought gives a soft roll back in my head;
a bit of ecstacy to ease this undaunted terror.
But there IT IS,
that slice of pie for
which we would
Trimmed the lines again today.
They looked a little messier than before.
Crossed over footprinted splash,
splatter and drips.
That big mess of beautiful color,
a p-p-picture of suppressed enigma.
The carver and I made it.
I gave the idea...
Wish I'd have kept my mouth shut.