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  • Red

    Heat flames into my cheeks,
    burning, burning, as I hang my head.
    Oh, stupid tongue, why
    do you betray me so? And why
    do you, mind, fumble
    the ball of my thoughts? Why
    do the wrong words spill out,
    like gallons of tomato juice
    to rub into the fur of a dog
    who panted up too close
    to an up-raised skunk tail.
    If I bite you, tongue, until you bleed,
    will you stay inside your pink
    and ivory cave next time
    stop your senseless wagging?
    But that would injure both of us,
    like every hurtful thing we do,
    and add yet more pain
    to the burden of this moment.
    Perhaps you could help me lick
    these wounds or speak
    those bittersweet and necessary
    words of apology.

    for AT and Pat Shekhard
    1st draft
  • About the image: This is a photograph of an unfinished sketch. It is so unfinished that you can still see the gesso through the thin glazes of paint. I am interested in process as well as result..
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