The figure you brushed in,
Stuck
under static skies,
Wants off the canvas.
He will not be your Man With Blue Banjo anymore.
He wants to be what he will be,
Not sailing scumbled seas
Under impasto thunderheads.
Wants off the canvas.
He will not be your Man With Blue Banjo anymore.
He wants to be what he will be,
Not sailing scumbled seas
Under impasto thunderheads.
He is tired of the dark sun.
He wants to lie down and rest.
No news comes from a far country.
The real estate around him —
A confabulation of blue and red stone —
Chills in an un-harbored sea.
The black sun was pushed, fell, or jumped,
To shine back upon itself.
He knows the sun will never set.
He cannot open his mouth to scream.
The oars will never move.
The island of color
Will always be eight inches away
And the boat
Will always be sinking.
The tattered sails hang in the wind.
The next day refuses to begin.
He clutches that blue banjo
As his ship tilts toward heaven.
---o0o---
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