overture: i am not water lilies

there is a blue box i keep
that hides pictures.
and things.

like figures of girls too thin to dance.
words too displaced to make sense.
men with stiff knees in painted black suits.

i’ve a picture of a pink door too-

would you beat on a painted door
if you knew it to be false?
perhaps.
if you though it was hiding lovers.
and things.

but such realities, as the falseness of a painted door
are trivial in anger.
pains that are illusions
become truths all at once-
until we are swimming in an ocean
thick as pudding.

of course,
my grandmothers anger is a curse
of having “good taste”.
why- then everyone else is tacky.
mismatched.
wrong-

style is such poison.

darling i hid in the tub and poured this confession out.

sometimes an artist must work in porcelain-
trick of the trade darling-
just as van gough.

surely, he’ll know.

for though i am not of his style,
we are of the same mind.
33% mad,
but one of a kind.

we bite like a revolution,
but with half the mess.
without the overthrow.
and things.

this is not monet.

i am not, water lilies .

i really am a medley of dots.

different colors,
mostly black.