It’s all about your angle: a mark you ache to etch
but can’t quite get down.
I wish God would give me a supernatural
protractor, I would
take it to split glass and split
infinitives, file them down to
perfect line and perfect
pitch. I’d sing. Something
rotten in context, but lovely as a single sound.
The call to come forth
is as loud as a car alarm at 4am
up close on a black sidewalk. But the forward ain’t
clear. So we write, qualify, quantify, and collect.
Art is an inbetween thing: a
wall hook and the hand reaching for it. Inside, Emotion
is always asking out Idea, and Idea is always blowing
him off. But together they catwalk
and pinwheel. And the truth is absinthe
at the pour of clean water, a blurred
invitation to my masquerade.