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Who knew you could paint? I am your finest work ever: the man with hollow eyes -- a half portrait caught in shadow (like a Goya caricature) the still life on canvas. You stomped out my words, like a cigarette butt to heel, muted my voice with the back of your brush killed the muse in blood red ochre made my face a watercolour blue, my lips an eggshell white. I accepted this fate without complaint, and turned my lips up in a Mona Lisa smile (though I may have whimpered), until acrylic dripped into my eyes and my soul screamed in mixed media. The line around my finger fades as sun gives colour to pale hands. I stretch atrophied muscle and put India ink to page breathing free air again. Though chalk bone is rickety pastel fingers unsure charcoal filters my mind clear and my voice flows to pen again. (though I still smell turpentine under my fingernails). Sorry, I couldn't hold that pose any longer, so you could finish your painting; don't fret, my dear, you'll find another subject for your art. |
| Robert K. Omura
lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada where he practices law. He is active
in education, law reform, the environment and the outdoors. His fiction
and poetry appears or is forthcoming in The
Arabesques Review, Barnstorm, The Rose and Thorn, Agency Magazine, 34th
Parallel, Poems Niederngasse, edifice WRECKED, Denver Syntax,
Mississippi Crow, Noneuclidean Cafe, blue skies poetry, Writing the
Land Anthology, Brink, Outercast, and Paradigm. He is currently
working on a novel, but that's slow going at best. email: robkomura@yahoo.ca |
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