Le Femme ( for Justin)


Some say he'd gone mad in early May 
pacing weary torturous nights 
in his white shirt sleeves rolled up
stained with days of sweat and paint 
lusting for the perfect woman in his mind
she called him to the blank canvas's throb
to his paints and blunt mixing knife

he dipped his brush in crimson red 
painted a pulse that could only beat for his crazed eyes 
gold in her hair blazed on his canvas
dim light caught the sparkle in her blue eyes
he painted her luscious lips with his bourbon drenched mouth
his brush stroked her curves to fit perfectly in his arms 

trill of her laughter on his Gitanes yellowed fingertips 
he brushed her spirit in colors of spring

dawn squeezed through rain washed panes
crept on the floor and cast
a transparent linen on his broken body 
his paint brush dug deep in his heart
foot prints in his colors on the ground
of a perfect woman gone feral outside his mind 
a blank canvas torn to shreds 

a pale moon lingered in May skies

Sorry

Some of them
actually
loved me.

I am sorry
most of all
for that.

Lynne might have
if I had let her,
I think Kara did.

Gina never
had a chance.

I was too
afraid.

Some of them
loved the idea
of a man who
would turn his
back on God.
Blame him
for the girl who
sang his songs.

One asked
what does she
have
that I
don't.

She would stare
at the photos
framed on my wall
and say,

am I not
as pretty?

don't I
love art?

do I not
do the things
you craved her
to do?

She loved me

and for that
I am sorriest
of all.