Splatter painting

His voice dripped with tired, venomous, sarcasm. “I love Pollock. I think my favorite is Red, Black, and Silver. Here, let me recreate it for you.” Then, he pulled his revolver out and casually painted a fine splatter, that was indeed a (bright) red and (dull) silver, across the horrified brick wall he had been sagging on.

Lord Brighton to his assembled family, Georgetown, 1654

And thou art all but sheep

Born to breed and die

And I art one too, but more, a ram with horns

With which I will wrest all I can from this mortal realm.

And yes, I have spokest past that one should know ones place,

But at once, one must understand not everything one deserves is easily attained.

Much also, must be torn free, like hard flesh from bone to be feasted on.

And if you will not join me, very well.

I shall leave thee all with my hoof’s dust prints,

To die far away, with the true, worldly experience of ten scores of thee all.


He leapt up onto the stage amidst glittering supernovas, greeted his mates nonchalantly as if not on stage in front of thousands, caught the thrown mic without but a glance, and then turned to us. “あなたはこれを翻訳していませんでした、”, His speech dazzled and perplexed us as much as the pyrotechnics. Was he welcoming us? Trying to pump us up in his own foreign way? Before I could gather my thoughts, “良い仕事 “, his enchanting, rolling voice continued. A smirk graced his features. Then, a snap of black hair, and without warning, sound erupted around us. Guitars screamed – finally free, the bass’ pounded methodically – a rock to hold onto in the chaos, I felt the drums echo through me.  As an earsplitting roar of approval arose all around and pillars of golden fire, phoenix tails, silhouetted those on stage, I realized my ruminations would never matter. Their music spoke more then enough for them.


And now I rarely think of you.

There are too many other things, even now,

crowding, shaking, my mind.

Babbling on television,

quibbling on social media, the internet,

staring straight at me about my future, the future.

A year from now I’ll only remember you on your birthday, or every Christmas.

After that, only at those odd, infrequent hours of the night that occur once or so in a blue moon.

I suppose if I had picked up your music and keyboard…

I wanted to, even.

But I didn’t.