the artist

Slam Poetry

aren't sunsets lovely dear
just like my dreams lately and your freckles
lovely the way that wrinkled old man sits at the corner bench.
and the stars, i think that ones venus but
i've never taken the time to learn
the way your brother never took the time to smile.
i wished on a shooting star
and on every wishable time on the clock
and i never told you my wishes because
each wish was a prayer.
and the moon is dark.  a sliver of light and i think God drew it
there just for snowshoes at midnight,
just for the scientist to play with probes on
just so the cow had something to jump over
just for the cheesemakers.
the stars are lovely dear,
but it hurts to breathe.
this air froze with my fingertips and i'm breathing down too many icicles
but the breathing doesn't stop.
its a humanity problem
they're addicted to this thing called Life
and some of us wish we weren't,
because the problem with this addiction is that
it doesn't give you lung cancer.
it shows you beauty and it hurts. like the icicles in my lungs.

i was rocking out to the latino radio station
and so were you,
and it scares me that we're so alike.
you wonder if anyone cares enough to tear down these walls you've built up,

well Last week I dreamed about you five nights in a row
and I'm still afraid.

you're afraid of cake boxes and barbie dolls and a long list of other things
with a list of reasons to match
and you say you're afraid of cake boxes because you never know what its really gonna be like
and of barbie dolls because people act fake enough as it is

and we're caught in some kind of Limbo where no one can tell what's real and what not
Least of all you
and maybe if things felt more real you would be honest, but
you're still convinced the top never stopped spinning...

These are the things I understand.

I understand that you exist on a colorwheel, that you breathe color and even though your lungs
are drowning in them
color is all that keeps you alive,
and the paint inside your veins is all that keep you real.

But the reason I never showed you my soul is that
YOU SHOWED ME YOURS FIRST
and its still stained in acrylics
You thought that if you drew on enough hands and
etched your name into enough hearts
it would make up for all the plastic in the world and for
all the illusions we've penned onto our faces

but I think you've got some kind of color constricting your lungs because
you
CAN'T
KEEP
BREATH.
It slips out.
and your lungs are filling with
drowning with
the illusions of paint
and real life.

There are things I understand and things I don't.

I understand that blue is too many dreams to call a color but people do it anyway
I understand that pianos are black and white but
give me one and I'll create all the color you've never dreamed of
I understand that you've got a color connecting you to reality
because it has always been easier for you to pretend
until
maybe it had something to do with the starlight
but you
finally
exhaled
all the color you've kept in.

and because you've never really known what was real
you closed your eyes for seven seconds

and asked.