PALETTE

Someone’s watching

all the time, you know?

I’m not talking about the cameras,

omnipresent, becoming omniscient;

looking down hallways, alleys,

and up short skirts; posted on

poles to see you run that light.

Or that old man on the bench

who hasn’t shaved since Thursday,

studying the passersby and cannot

remember the last time he saw

legs that long hanging from a shorts

that short. You know what he thinks,

what he wants and knows he can’t have.

I’m not even talking God, here,

looking out through your eyes.

Or worse, those postmodern midgets

and their abstract impressionism stuck

with amorphous art in an amorphous

generation with nowhere to go.

I don’t want their empty eyes to see

me shuffle by, or storm through

a night on their ineffectual canvass

so they can dribble a spot of blue,

or splash of yellow

with jagged edges.

No.

I’m talking about those cyanide souls

like that redheaded poet, who knows

what you are, and isn’t afraid to say

what they see.

In writing.

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

Excellent if positively cynical. If that is not an oxymoron.

[Vol]

Ken,
hahaha... I know, right? I AM the happiest, most relaxed, optimistic CYNIC you'll ever meet...
I've been one since the Hippie movement died.
Vol
Vol

[John the Baptist]

I don't know what color Bukowski's hair was, but the last stanza sounds awfully like him.

[Vol]

This was about a Student of mine... A Truth teller supreme, You can find her on Instagram as "The Constant Poet." She inspired several of my own...

[Stu. T.H.]

Those creatures, who speak their minds with manners and courage, ungutted by bigotry, I too adore. Tis' a finely put work, author Vol, your words do make the minds wander. Such ability I have yet to attain for myself, though never will again. Thank you for sharing your work and have a splendid day.
- Leon

[Vol]

Sometimes a poets words a leaves on a tree, sometimes wafting in the air, and sometimes stuck in wet mud. Sometimes a poets words are boulders on the mountain, sometimes, twisted in the bed of a river of wind, sometimes crushed gravel on the road. Sometimes a poet's wors burn like the sun, sometimes frozen on the dark side of the moon, and sometimes, they just float in space. No poet writes exactly what they mean, and no reader ever truly understands. So STU! Yes you do! You just don't know it...

[Stu. T.H.]

Thank you for your words, author Vol, I hope to regain my life momentum and my passion in due time so I may continue writing here. Until then, happy Valentine's.