David Fine
Again I stand before an empty canvas,
whiteness
of paper and mind. I take up the pen
to name the reclusive religions
of the self.
Six to seven umbilical
cords flare from my
center. They pull Jesus—do unto others,
the greatest of these is love, blessed are the peace-makers—toward me. Another attaches to
mother—high blood pressure, depression, cellulite—
grandmothers. A cord wraps
around the fathers—the alcoholics,
workaholics, the silent. Fluids pass, exchange, mix, meddle.
A cord flies this way, another, that. Selves split;
demons rage. My pen tries
in vain to temper
tempests, to chain chaos
with
words.
I gaze invidiously at Frida Kahlo's Yo y mis Pericos.
She brushes out her soul
with ease,
dips in the emeralds of her envy,
the scarlets of her
passionate rage,
to image her self, to unveil
her deepest yearnings,
the forbidden felicities. Four parrots
land on her shoulders
and lap—
an image of erotic fulfillment
and peace. Frida's face lightens
with Kama's embrace. Her
simple smile haunts;
her four parrots shame.
Frida sets life still—
calms currents, walks on water. I
splash in muddy puddles. She
smirks; I stumble with my pen.
Weaving a shroud of words, I
clumsily court Kama,
only to receive Kali—
her chaos and the void.
I sit on an empty bed with a blank page; at most
3 1/2 parrots make their nest—inadequate in
love and making. The lions continue to growl,
prowl,
waiting for the saint I will throw them
to devour. Over the roar I hear Frida's parrots
screeching shantih, shantih;
I trace the letters
s h a n t i h
to no avail.
Inside the dark groundless sea rolls; yes
I have lost my vision.