I thought all of this black ink was going to dry clean
that the paper would remain white. I thought all of this white paint
would splatter perfectly on the black canvas and I would be
here,
some angel,
some inverse Jackson Pollock standing on the edge of the
Empire State building waiting to swan dive into traffic
and rising like a phoenix with scrapes and bruises
but still fully functioning
and heart fully beating.
It started then with this black ink--mightier than the sword.
Here with this ink I lay into humanity, I lay into posterity
I write the dream into fruition I shape desperate boredom
with my bare hands into a clay like man.
I write words which state my point of view, my mind, my brand.
I am almost delierious with the drunk power each tiny speck of black has,
becuase together they become greater than the sum of their parts
whether I like it or not they become a legacy
if to no one else but me
so I judge myself
because the critics are out to lunch and if I come up short
I only have myself to blame as I look into the mirror
looking forward as much as I can despite the reflection
where the distance in the mirror
is just what's behind me.
Funny how that works.
