Until I can Paint with Words


Razored through the rub,each considered mark

an artist’s insinuation,

stretched sinuous, black, 
sure as coal.
Asserting primacy of 

image over word,

and in stark revenge,

I approach a 
Rothko in a room.
Dipping 

the brush of a pen,

held indexed 

and thumbed into 
mindblood,
applying that 

red to print,

I stroke 

a sentence as horizon
to barely visible hate;

a swept wash 

of pale skin, nibbed 

to puncture and relate, 
delivered to paper

a paragraph,

redder
than any artist could wring from their mix.

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