painter's son

Paint always drips
Whether from brush 
to lips
to hips
Bristled by the next lie
Hiding in pedals 
Bundling between 

Pens can be slippery 
Molested by many fingers
Cradling in callouses
Handing out zingers
Over drawn identity
Sketching with a left hand 
Smearing the ink 
A plan in drag that lingers

I can't draw what I see
Therefore I hold no response for wind in the trees
I can't pen what I know
Henceforth I will hold no accounts for rain & snow

This desire to penetrate a canvas
Gold leaf pressed into edges
Outlines drawn over & over
Mother may I entrances
Til the contour of each breast is complete
Til the moment you recognize the home 
& face what it demands of us

Born into clay shapeless in ruins
Chopping block of unknown substance
Chiseling out a feminine torso
Bottom half proportion to Greek phallic fallacy 
To be undressed under the influence
To be caressed & held ever so taught
Preservation in creation's absolution

I do not have the style I portray
The physical passerby
The emotional ashtray 
I do not have patient hands to paint the homesteader 
I gave him up after reoccurring dreams of 
staccato tapping 
& a violent history with love letters
I am the painter's son 
I must not finish what I know can always be better

Max BarsnessComment