six poems (twombly)
for drm


i
tulips

im walking w/o an umbrella

tired, cold
bored, wet

avoiding my room
so onto the corner grocery

tulips behind glass
smear of red/orange
green stems

buy a dozen--
and im disappointed.
they dont live up to promise

ii
(cattulus)

near the edges of a body
there is a a spot
of white light

right in the middle

a roan rabbit punch to
the solar plexus

iii

june
in vancouver

the faberge gallery
of an old bank

standing in front of
6 pictures of roman poets
then looking up,

the blue of sky,
the odd white cloud
the ring of gold
on the robins dome

the 6 paintings
with smear of chalk,

there is a certain perfection
of placement

and a c ertain gap,
where meaning goes
and form rises

a slight of hand,
that only occurs
in the proper light.

iv
the middle of winter
the snow will never disappear

piling around,
mountains in mall parking lots

bridging the corners of streets
when it melts, the lakes of slush

its shit brindle, its cold,
the salt destroys yr shoes

the mess settles somewhere
b/w her fifth and sixth vertabrae

its a pile of pigeon of shit
on yr shoulders,
its a boxcoffinapairy
and the buzzing deafens you.

v
when you were
a kid, and you were really angry
at some injustice,
you coloured loud and hard
till the paper broke--

imagine that you kept going
you kept reading,
you saw
other people's paintings

rape stopped becoming
seduction

the world never turned out fair
mens stories become dangerous

the marks have the same chaos
as a child
but w. an adults rending

vi

it doesnt matter
how many classes you have
how many degrees youve piled up

it doesnt matter how well
you try to make everything
about colour or line

everything becomes a narrative
there is a little failure
in our not realizing.