I stared at the Old Guitarist
for 3 hours on Sunday,
her face is just so beautiful
and mysterious.
It caught me looking with a sideways glance
and it's eyes shuddered
and looked scared in a slanted way.

Sunday's I stare;
the Old Guitarist's woman eyes
galncing back
sideways,
for 3 hours on end.
I feel cold and scared in the big open rooms,
the echos slanting off the walls
mixing conversations;
"Plantanes in love,"
"Coffee this morning with Mayo,"
"My arms are blurred vision."

I feel formulaic,
and dusty,
and old.
My armbars touch my invisible ladies breasts;
makes me blue.
I am balding
or bald,
but with angular, jutting jaws
I keep my slanting age discrete.
You cannot tell the troubles I have or had
so you make your own,
in only three hours;
shivering and wet.

My toes prick in the heat of my shoes,
and I feel you standing behind me,
wanting to get a closer look.
But I've been here for 3 hours already
and just one more minute of waiting
will be okay,
right?
I know I'm tall and you're short,
but our common goal should be a glance of love
or a breezy ride down a slanting playground slide.
There's no way I'm going to let you go any further,
she's mine today.

The Old Guitarist feels sick,
so he drops his head down
and plucks strings.

I have my own opinions as to why
Pablo Picaso is so popular.
Like Poplar Trees, blue-green
pinecone swimming in the fish-sea
drinking salt water in the nose-neck,
forgetting to put on the raincoat belt
that is yellow.
The Sun was not out today, Sunday, March 27.

Good to see you posting again.

Grity lines of blues and darker blues
glancing to slant angular faces,
in the skylight's overcast glow.
It's hot in here even with no coat on;
stuffy and smells of an attic.
It's not that I am sorting through old clothes,
of my mother's and father's,
looking for something to salivate over
and cure my urges,
I just remember the sensory overload.

It is not a good idea to sneak a jar of honey
into a museum.
It will always spill and get everything sticky.
People with look at you
with dark, blue faces;
tilt their heads sideways
and blink.

It's hard, aint' it hard.
Oh, it's hard ain't it hard.
And, um, it looks like he sturms with his fingers;
he's left handed,
his hair's slanting down to the floor,
and his hand's glancing her eyelids
softly.
It's dusk or dawn's glimmer
that makes him glow more.

My fingers would hurt,
if I had to hold a note for that long.

Oh God, I don't even know how to paint slant sideways heads.

In the deep seas there is an Old Guitarist,
frozen with hardline pupils
and cracked kunckles.
He eyes the woman diver,
in her tight body-suit,
fitting aginast her taut body;
air bubbles floating to the surface,
tickling the moonshapes
of the smiling sqaure dancing world.

It's crazy how old folks talk,
shuffling their lips
and their wrinkled eye-sockets.
They speak about being tired;
of sleeping,
of moving,
of sitting,
of loving.
Listening to them is the sound of snow falling.

Cold creaks the hand,
blistered and cragged and chapped,
empty in the echoing, montrous, walled vaults;
you feel it,
the musky air smelling you;
the back of your neck,
the slit of you blown-brown eyes,
the yellow of your teeth;
there's a hum of humidifiers,
somewhere.

you're a dude, right?

*plugs you in the kitchen*