Wednesday, January 16, 2008

The Realist

He did not know the difference
between good pain and bad pain.

Quote pain for me has always
been a kind of memory game--

to prick my fingers through
the strings of the guitar was a torture

each fresh ache tinged
with a lingering fear of death.

It was always something with him:
a sore finger, a sprained penis, a pulled ego.

I told him, in my days, you could
lose your ear by day

and still muster enough strength
to paint yourself in the moonlight.

Well, he started to believe if only he lived
in portraits his disease would be cured,

and here we are today: a real pair
of numb skulls-- his song and his scream

inseparable, as he bemoans a new
pain in each plucked string

and me, painting him over
a decade now, trying to reconcile

the pain of his song with the pain
of knowing him.