Self-portrait: Cubism In A Morning Mirror
My pumpkin colored, plastic razor
sleds the white snow fields of my cheeks,
edges across the narrow rope bridge below
my nose, transverses the intricacy of cleft
and chin, and when I jut my jaw out hoes up
my neck as if it was scratching the belly of
an old dog who’d rather stay in now.
FG 4 August 2011
All right are reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood.
Many poems seem like still-life paintings. My Orchid Bloom is one. To this one I add my avant-garde self portrait. When you live in a single room, it’s hard to find a place to hang it, though. Hmm.
sleds the white snow fields of my cheeks,
edges across the narrow rope bridge below
my nose, transverses the intricacy of cleft
and chin, and when I jut my jaw out hoes up
my neck as if it was scratching the belly of
an old dog who’d rather stay in now.
FG 4 August 2011
All right are reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood.
Many poems seem like still-life paintings. My Orchid Bloom is one. To this one I add my avant-garde self portrait. When you live in a single room, it’s hard to find a place to hang it, though. Hmm.
posted by Forrest | 3:39 AM
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