CBH Blues II

The Artist/Pansyass in the MorningThis is the time of daywhen I transformfrom astral touristtofeedingcharmingwriterhuman.

Notebook latched on lapover loose-crossed legsso my vagina can breathe.

Eyes in poet’s heavy-lidded gaze,akin to a silentjudgmentallobster,bitter about its own meatto be boiledpickedand eaten.

I study the sun’s ethereal piss-raysthat paint lineson the backdropof drab librarian cloud-pages,swollen withgray rain-babies.

The lines serpentining,as if to pose a dare:think harder!see harder!exist harder!until there’s concretein my fingersand adamantine inkbetween thembecause I’m coldand a liarand no good.

And these eyes are too softfor sun’s putrid truth on paper.