Saturday, July 10, 2010

47. pa(I)nt(I)ngs

faces painted and painted
faces what you make and
what they make of them-
selves and pigment oil and
water our vanished world
what face we thought we
had or thought we were

the movement of brushes
over the face the motion
of hands of brushes over
the face the swinging of
paint and powders over
the face the face of eyes
and smile the face of red
and pink and brown and
hazel the color of skin the
color of voices coloring words

you see in the eyes what
the eyes see they see you
you see in the eyes what
the eyes see they see
cameras you see in the
eyes what mirrors they
see what hands holding
the mirror the camera
the brush the eye the you
they see the eyes and
yeses and ayes and you
and you see them there too

you can see the paint there
is paint that you can see on
the brush there is paint on
the canvas there is on the
face of the woman the paint
of her face on the face of the
man the colors of his face
as he had imagined them
a red blotch a patch of
baldness bright orange
hair and you can see how
their faces have made them
who they are how their
faces show them where they
are tell them what they can
do determine the life they
lead the sadness in the eyes
that know too much to keep
from washing away the paint
that holds the face in place

where there is skin you lay
a layer of paint where there
is tooth or nail or hair where
there is the eye or the nostril
where there is the hand that
cannot hold a thing you add
paint to make the person as
she is as he is in the painting
with paint with pink with
yellow with orange and blue
there is paint where you
see it there is paint where
you don’t their faces are
painted and painted and you
paint what you see until
you see what they who they are

I see every person before me
even when they’ve come
after me and I’m running
from the painting you made
for the basement the painting
you painted for the wall and
I see the eyes of the people
who once were not even
paintings or thoughts of
paintings I see every person
before me even when they’ve
come after me and can take
no more I see them in the
paintings of their eyes I see
them in the spaces on the
walls where their families
will hang them I see them
hanging from the walls their
eyes opened and in colors but
floating in a blind pool of white

You see I see you see I’m painting
I have no paint but paint after
a long run I am painting everyone
I have ever seen I paint with my
fingers I paint with my eyes with
my hands and my lungs I paint
with my voice with these words
with the moving of paint I paint
every day and every night I paint
I paint every word you have
painted tomorrow but I’ve painted
no-one and nothing nowhere I’ve
painted no person no hand and no
eye I paint without painting and
wait without time the space between
here and now is farther than that

There are no words for painting maybe
pigment ink canvas covered with color
augmentation tremolo mulch husk
aura of a vanished world these words
are no colors and have no shape beyond
where they lie and how they are lies
of the page articles of each not paint
and eye and I am moving to a place beyond
meaning but filled with all its trappings

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