Wednesday, September 5, 2012

A Picture

Drawing, tracing a figure with a fingernail
scraping against the pavement as the mid-day sun beats
down on the street, radiating from every surface and evaporating
every drop of moisture from the skin of his brow
having already produced beads of sweat resembling
raindrops collected on a leaf.

He feels the pressure on his finger, the subtle scraping
of his nail as it slowly fractures and turns to dust against
the coarse top of the black surface, dragged like a stick
in the sand along the beach, taunting the tide to wash it away.
He saw the movement of legs and skirts and pants and briefcases
and bicycles and cars and dogs as they moved past him.
They moved and he remained still.

As he slowly draws circles and squares and
triangles to create his figures his cuticles catch the surface
ripping the skin from his finger and creating
specks of blood that draw contrast as the red
blots of his life mix with the white trail
of flakes that represent his solid mass.

He felt the skin under his nail catch the pavement and stopped
and thrust his finger into his mouth and tasted the blood as it trickled
slowly on his tongue. He touched the raw skin with his tongue
and felt the smooth yet raw skin that tinged with pain
as his tongue brush against it passing along to find the pain.

He touched the injured finger to his lower teeth, slowly feeling
the wet, slippery ridges that existed on ivory that was so strong.
He looked to the sky and stared at the sun which had revoked any sense
of relief simply with its presence. It touched the beads of sweat on
his brow and stung his eyes as he stared directly at this white beacon.

He stood, feeling the pull of the muscles in his legs and the creaking
of his knees as he rose above the ground and looked down upon
the pavement that had become his canvas. He looked down
to the pavement and saw the collection of circles and squares
and triangles and he saw the world. He saw humanity he saw
his soul he saw lives of those around him and of those who
had walked passed him as he created this picture, some not noticing
him others dismissing him as crazy or homeless or a runaway or
a junkie or a poor artist. He looked down and saw the world.









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