Laying Down and Underpainting

She called our love kitsch

From the 17th floor

Williamsburg high rise

Overlooking homeless in the park

Under dressed and over exposed

Was I kidding her or just killing myself?

Fascinated by her manic beauty

As she tore apart the morning in disguise

Throwing fits of rage like I’d paper in a bin

Stripping away my senses like her past

It wasn’t as much a choice as it was survival

Leaving her lust like the vanilla

She tasted on my ghost

While laying down the underpainting

For her latest masterpiece in loss

Then only dust remains

I like listening to the sound

Of beautiful melodies

Ones I haven’t the heart to play

Ones I haven’t the strength to ignore

Mostly those that come in waves

After morning, noon, and night

You can hear them like catching

The glimpse of a shooting star

Barefoot atop San Jacinto

Bend Oregon or Williamsburg highrise

Naked in the ecstasy of flight

Knowing even as your approaching

You’ve already begun to disappear

a caged artist

I never met an artist I didn’t like

I just tasted their breathe

from an arms length away

and

when they told me drunkenly

to go to hell

at least I knew they meant it

so while she tore off her clothes

like a caged animal

in the center of a Williamsburg high-rise

a slave to her own bizarre fashion

I could see it there, her passion

exhibited like a gallery of fine art

and her hair

painted in oils hyper-realistic

she would drive herself wild

though couldn’t quite blend her canvas

into the madness she became

hysterical so

closing the cage I left

knowing

there wasn’t more I could do

than allow her the respect and dignity

to clean up her own mess.