my softly spotted lanternfly

see how I lovingly shined my shoes

as I crush you undertow

embrace my gravity of greater good

for crimes of consumption

your conviction has come

you understand, of course

blame the visibility of this cruel path

resent first your own scarlet accents

I harbor you no ill will, soft one

your tragic part you’ve played so well

allow that to settle your nerves

fold your thin wings now

still those trembling legs

this final gift of absolution

spend your last breath on my thanks

this painting leaves nothing behind.  

there is some spite brushed in: 

you can see the self-imposed deconstruction 

but not without rumination. 

how the twin brother of temperance 

merges with boyhood flaming nude. 

adolescenthands paw at the dead inside 

textbooks. Striking is the shade of cadmium blue.

and there is part passion too: 

on these canvas walls 

keywords are spun into ivy

it lines the halls   

where our carbon dark stains are redressed 

and where the portraits of frenzied progress 

emerge from blank plaster Homage to Lincoln Perry 

But we’ve all grown sick of performance

For Charlottesville

Secret-laden town, 

serpentine in its welcome.

Honey-suckled rotting,

bricks, petal-pressed, you pass by,

overhearing,

I had no idea.

So, abandon the story.

So, call out to me—

with the pickle breath 

& yellow Heinz-dolloped white wool sweater. 

(There used to be one type of mustard /

Grey Poupon did the damn thing.)

We recognize when something’s derivative. 

In the front room of the Fralin,

beside the wall painted plum & pearl

words cracked from time flanneling,

there’s a Painting of a Painting. 

A Poem of a Poem. 

Noses and freckles collaged—

The World in a Box. 

We are all pieces of each other.

Nothing is more important than this.