CBH Blues II

The Artist/Pansyass in the Morning
This is the time of day
when I transform
from astral tourist
to
feeding
charming
writer
human.

Notebook latched on lap
over loose-crossed legs
so my vagina can breathe.

Eyes in poet’s heavy-lidded gaze,
akin to a silent
judgmental
lobster,
bitter about its own meat
to be boiled
picked
and eaten.

I study the sun’s ethereal piss-rays
that paint lines
on the backdrop
of drab librarian cloud-pages,
swollen with
gray rain-babies.

The lines serpentining,
as if to pose a dare:
think harder!
see harder!
exist harder!
until there’s concrete
in my fingers
and adamantine ink
between them
because I’m cold
and a liar
and no good.

And these eyes are too soft
for sun’s putrid truth on paper.