in this picture i paint
and it leaves
occasionally
not the addiction to words
but the
ability to make them cut
there are days spent
waiting for rain or the deaths
of my teenage idols
long afternoons wasted
beneath
some new brutal silence
and the furniture seems familiar
in this house
colors i recognize
and the damp smell of
decaying wood
the sound of my son
downstairs laughing as his mother
chases him through the
kitchen
and the cats all cry for food
and my hands curl in
on themselves
as the need for violence becomes
too big to ignore
we are none of us dogs
in this picture i paint and we
are none of us gods
we are only ourselves
trapped in the world of
human noise where
anything can be forgiven
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