March 11, 2011 § Leave a comment

You are a silversmith
The vehement artist of flame and fury
And your demons die on the cold of metal you are pounding
Soldering the infusible, the unusable,
And I see you on a brick red backdrop of a brownstone studio and I
will hang the work of your leathered hands around my neck and hang the weight of my tired soul from your words because with the flux of flexibility and the metal of martyrs you
Are sculpting sacred paths through splattered paint like Pollock
and the eyes of the ones standing on street corners cannot make sense of your retrospective exhibition, like poorly packaged remnants of the days your muses died, you
are an Indian sand painter
calling on the wind to bring you pigment and hearing music in the mournful wail of the desert air
He who lives with wolves must howl with them but you
are between wooden walls and metal roof and you are buried from the moon and yet….



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