mn :: poetry

Detour into Tahiti

Everyone runs out of rope--who can say that Roberts makes it,

eating in diners and rented rooms for as many years as a man may live?

Gauguin still ended up dead, leprotic, silent about it being worth the risk.

Leaving the truckstop for a life of voice-overed flashback, memories that

swoon into staticky jazz numbers and half-remembered faces held dear

primary colors, blocky shapes, disintegration as clear as the nose on your face.

But then, it does that to you after a while, you get drunk on it because it's all

that really matters to you and then it's what you are the act of living,

your only real chance at doing something you'd want to put your name to.

Jacob and the angel wrestling on a field of glory red behind a low stone wall,

the wall between here and an increasingly difficult there; perhaps it was the

whispering of women's starched headresses that distracted him, broke his hip.

The lines thick and sharp, fingers blunted and compressed into pious hands built

from the unfair elements: rock, rain, and blood, ghostly harsh things that must

be kept in words or paint. Ill, returning from France, Gaguin established a house.

He painted gods on every wall and made love with all the women in the village.

Now he sits alone at the counter, waiting for the lash, the firm, exotic strokes

of blue, red, black, and yellow. The angel in this painting is a truck driver with

a pocket full of nickels, a cup of coffee and a counter stool. He scratches his

head looking at the paintings, turns them upside down, and laughs.

Last modified: Oct 24, 2008 2:28 pm. Contact me.