Broom hare

Nature Morte

 
I’m always painting dogs these days.
And Broom hares.
One in the other’s mouth
or both on the ground
in decay.
 
She asks about my sanity,
she says, because she cares.
She asks, I think,
because I’m poor.
 
Once, she told me I brought something organic, vital,
and in juxtaposition to the concrete city surrounding us
truly substantial
to the table.
 
I should have laughed in her face.
She should have laughed in mine.
 
Can I really leave a canvas blank?
Take a shower, shave, find a job?
Play a critic with a blog?
Or, like Robert Malaval,
to escape the boredom of repetition,
put a gun in my mouth?
 
I mean, it’s either that or
keep painting dogs, right?
 
And Broom hares,
 
alone, together,
one in the other’s mouth
or both on the ground
in the grass,
on the rocks
with the grubs—
photorealism is only any good
when you can’t turn away.
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