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Personal Note:

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Poem

I told him we were broken, the way
horses can be, and he galloped through 
the sentence like a cowboy, less a
heart.  I loosed the biggest word I could 
think of – so enormous I felt everything
in me squeeze back as it passed by
and nearly choked as it pushed 
its way into the outer world -
and he brushed it aside like 
errant dandelion snow. 
By then, there were at least
four voices within me, ranting,
and the image of myself throwing 
buckets of paint against a wall 
was blinking repeatedly in my head.
And still he was talking – 
with his hands gesturing, gesturing -
talking about places he’d been
talking about what he thinks himself
passionate about
talking about what he learned
in counseling
and talking
talking, 
talking
about 

nothing.


When he got to Italy, I stopped him
at Michelangelo, thinking, “here! – 
here finally is a scaffold we can 
throw ourselves off of”.  Thinking 
if Einstein’s wardrobe wasn’t enough, 
if a scrawny white boy singing 
the blues wasn’t either and if the 
most interesting thing I said that night 
was that I never ever set a clock 
to an uneven time (and I hadn’t even 
said that yet)… maybe the image of 
an artist suspended in air with 
his heart pointed to heaven 
and the myriad of thoughts 
that must have run 
like a river through him as he
stood there, arm outstretched,
might trigger something.
But, he had no idea that 
Buonarroti was a poet 
or that he honestly expected 
Moses to speak 
to him once freed 
from the confines 
of stone and of
artist himself,
he said

nothing.

Apparently, he was more 
Moses than Michelangelo, and
it was all I could do 
not to take 
a hammer
to his 
knee.

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