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coiled by a bottle python;

on the one face, i am blocking.

on the other face, i am drinking;

i am a Cabernet-drunken-heart
concealing its fermented secrets

being lifted by amorous air-hands

and shoved by curious thirster-thumbs

bending

and griiiiiping

waiting

and griiiiiping

until

PAWP!

now i am breathing sober fumes

and i am dried out;

i am a Cabernet-drunken-heart
revealing more vulnerably

as sober with a stain

than drunk with a secret.

the curious thirsters ignore me.

they drink too.

i wait for them to feel as naked as i do;

i am lying next to the kitchen sink, exposed,

hoping the bottle python with come back for me.

:::

Your love

is by me both

Roman land and sacrosanct wilderness;

both

stamped by the boot of an astronaut

and sustainably uncorrupt lunar powder;

both

knowing where i was with You
and knowing where i could be with You

:::

ask the artist, any artist:
ask them what they think.

ask them about their work---
what is his or her unique style?

ask them about their mistakes---
what are the mistakes?

ask them who is to blame---
who is at fault?

for being shy of perfection---
just shy of a masterpiece?

it is his or her fault;
not once did he or she judge

the lighting in the room,
the weather outside,
the wetness of the paint,
the color of the paint,
the surface of the palate,
the dullness of a pencil,
the edge of the ruler,
the bristles of the brush,
or the angle of the canvas.

they judge themselves,
only and ever.