|A work of art titled "Bomb Shelter"|
|Repeating pattern for a journal cover.|
He stands facing me, the luxurious and artsy room behind him. His home is not usual. It's fantastic and futuristic. He grins a little lopsidedly and shrugs a bit.A Poem: Graffiti Grafitto
"This is quite a ... feather in your cap." I say with a smile.
"A feather in my cap. When you say that it sounds so insignificant. Unimportant. As if it didn't matter."
"If it were a feather in my cap it wouldn't matter."
"It means nothing to you."
"No. But it means something to you. And that's what counts."
He turns and his shoulders roll back, his head raises and I can see a part of his satisfied smile as he looks through the huge plate glass and drinks in the view of half of a canyonous valley of trees. He is happy. I am relieved to have survived another awkward moment.
such as nice boys don't but nice girls do
and do they?
they can't so how can they
there's no answer
no special way to twist the knot or caress the knob
there's no secret combination and no lock to solve
and just this sort of strange epiphany that it all doesn't matter unless you choose it unless you want it unless you take it unless you keep it and unless
you work at it
really work at it
and not just wish for it
and not just expect heaven or hell to drop it into your lap
or freeze it to your face
or make the colors right or
you can't force it
you can't press a duck into china and make a feather stick
you must not
and the song keeps going
there's no strange notes
they are all here
and the damn breaks
and rusty water flows until it's black and then blue and then clear
and there's a sigh
and in the back someone is hurriedly scribbling