05 August 2006
the art of becoming invisible
If I could I would paint a portrait
of a person who lies dying in bed.
There would be an open window
somewhere in the background,
two floors up and rather small
but vivid as a postage stamp,
and chartreuse curtains curtsy
as a silky breeze flutters in and
the eye decides where to look.
Outside the window can be seen
the counterpoint that is nature-
tree, bird, sky, the rolling hills
bright and green with life, and a
road leading somewhere far away.
If I could I would paint
a wry smile on your face,
your blue eyes open, your
skin pink as a peach and
hands in prayerful repose,
folded around a book of
your favorite poems.
Oh, if only I could I would paint
large roses just like de Longpre,
and they would be white and
beautiful and blooming with life
in a crystal vase, in a corner
on a table off to the right.
Finally, one who loves you,
sitting in a plumb cast chair
beside the big mahogany bed,
reading to you from the book
that you hold in your hands,
the art of becoming invisible.
on bug patrol
I find bugs in the flowers,
take it for a sign:
creepy-crawlies
crawling ugly, deep,
spewing come-on
tracks of waste
inside me,
certainly.
That's how this mind works.
No metaphors,
these bugs,
sucking my life
sure as invisible
worm ever
sapped flower.
–El Cerrito, 23 June 2006
