November 2015 - Comments Off

Jeremy Geragotelis

Me: I am in this meeting house
And the weeds outside are painted acrylic,
Crisp and obtrusive. It hurts me sometimes
To look at the world when it is so lovely.
There is someone speaking here,
In this meeting house.
But it does not matter; I do not have to listen.
I can let my eyes drag me outside,
Past a window where everything becomes
Color and water-soluble.

You are supposed to be here
But you are not.
Where are you and are you covered in paint?

You: you paint sometimes
But not often enough to call yourself a painter.
So is your world as colorful as mine
And when you skin your knee do you bleed yellow?
When I look at the world when it is so lovely,
You do not see the same. There is no Big Dipper
There. There is no spot of white there on brown paper.
You drag your way through the landscape
Of your evenings: that is mountains that have no end
That you have painted pasty beige.

You are supposed to be
But you are not.
Where are you and are you covered?

Me: I am in this meeting house
And the weeds outside won’t stop growing.
I am tired and sometimes the smell of the
Painted ground makes my feet and face hot.
I am lucky and you are not.
I am blessed as I splatter prayers
On the wind just like Jackson Pollock.

Published by: in Issue 1: Fall 2015, Poetry, Volume 72

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