Saturday, January 31, 2015


his words, a sloppy paint job
spatter the phone at his mouth
and mist the air with ugly

a mother skirts by him, wide
avoiding the spray before it settles
on her young son
after all, some messes stick

a couple abandons food on plate
taste mingled with fumes has lost it's appeal
eyes cut left as they pass at the one-man exhibit no one wants to visit
a Jackson Pollock carnage
the cafe, his purloined canvas

in the spray zone she sits
feeling the pelt of words like Chinese water torture
pondering lips and their poison
and she remembers
that while he sprays words wide and loud
even quiet tongues
are untamed brushes