Portrait
I will paint
for you a large guitar with thick black lines
I will fill
it with the fading cities of yesterday
Rome
Barcelona Santa Cruz
with the
ancient streets I frequent in my sleep
I will paint
the neck as delicate as the back of a woman
Along the
strings I will spin invisible strands of joy
and long
filaments of moonlight
I will paint
myself as the arms of a tree
slowly
embracing the guitar in gradual surrender
to the heavy
beauty of stars
My face will
be painted in the eyes of clouds
drifting yet
paralyzed in stillness
The music I
will not paint for you
for it is
the thunder you harbor in your own soul
And the
sound the same I will leave open
like a hole
in the sky
for the
transcendence of your desires
My hands I
will paint as if they were real
like ravens
wings blurred in grayish reds
At my feet
will be a pool of childhood memories
upside down
wooden horses
paper
castles floating in the night
On my
shoulders I will paint a sweet blanket of rain
and on my
chest the cares of fallen lovers
white dabs
of sadness
a little
wisdom on the silence of my lips
The guitar I
am wrapped around
is the body
of the earth I walk through
one song at
a time
I will paint
my dreams like furious homeless
arrows
piercing my mind my fingers my strings
I will paint
this guitar moving inside myself
across the
fine lines of years
The glare of
life itself will hypnotically come
and go like
sunrise and sunset
You will see
the ghost of a Spanish dancer
painted on
the backside of bedroom mirrors
thin black
lines
mysterious
splashes of death and reunions
quiet on the
walls
I will paint
for you until I am old
until I fill
it with the sun of Africa and the spirit
of Asian
moons
And still I
will walk outside the frames of my dreams
collecting
remnants of melodies from beggars and angels
playing
songs of mourning on the streets
where
gypsies weep
Finally I
will paint open a window
and
disappear into the slumber of the uncontained.