i sit before mr.e.e.cummings
as one sits before
any a who-artist:
naked
nervous(ly smiling.)
"paint me,” i say,
“paint me a poem
on your white canvas
waiting in your
click-
clack
typewriter,
waiting as i
for your
thud-
thump
heart."
he tries a line(tickitytacktackclick)
heaves a sigh:
"can't be done!
it must be mud-
luscious
Spring!Time
is jumping forward
too fast!too
old! my
heart does not
thud-
thump
unless there is Rain."
rising with a shaking head
he leaves me (my performance concluded),
with my
chilled
pale
being.
i think an artist can never love,
never see colors in real time:
never look past their
eden-greens
staying-golds
sinless-whites
to see things in the now
(they say life is so
chilled,
pale, because it too is a mortal
being).