pure
"you have such a pure face," she said
interpreting my frame in cheap acrylics
on discount white canvas board
her bleached-out cobweb frizz of hair
tangled dangerously on her skull
framing her painted face that conjured
images of Bette Davis in "Baby Jane"
a Tom Waits song in the background
added to the dream sequence
(if only I were asleep)
Elizabeth is her name, but
she'd be better as "Lizzie"
(in her spare time, she enjoys
chopping 40 whacks into poor souls
with bleeding hearts eagerly
listening to non-sequiturs rambled
in a possibly crack-induced state)
she worked on her masterpiece
in stops and starts while I sat
mock reposed making sure my
contrapposto was aesthetically pleasing
her creativity was stifled
she talked with this guy, Carol
who worked to her right
she repeatedly dipped her paintbrush
into a cup of tea thinking it was
her water jar and complained
with a siren wail, "I'm screwing this all up."
bored with her creation, she interviewed me
("what's your name? is it hard to sit still?")
no one had bothered to tell her this:
art model = deaf mute
distracted
I used to be fascinated by your long
fingers almost talons but soft, inviting
I want them to fondle my neck, back
shoulders, thighs-skin all over slowly
but you don't like it that way
want the Fast Fuck and Sweaty Cuddle
falling asleep like a sated lion
you're a polite conversation over dinner
starting with, "wasn't that a great movie?"
or, "have you heard from so-and-so?"
as an unwilling character in this play
my thoughts move to another obsession
the shape of a throat connected
to cheekbones under eyes with anchors
hands and fingers combing over my neck
back, shoulders, thighs... you know
places you don't mention in mixed company