Somedays I wished I had been a painter
alone, in a room sketching sunsets
on an unknown village
by the sea.
To me, depression is not a blue
and rainy kind of day.
It is more like summer,
hot and with dead grass
and the hunger of
money fevers.
Count me such American,
but I am always third world.
When I am jobless,
I too wander in the cities
of my head.
I taste the staleness of
not having enough of bread.
At least, in painting,
I can live a muted existence.
My emotions, painted clear.
There is no need to explain a thing:
The birds on blue skies dive into
the sea with a crimson coating as if
burning in this beauty.
If it goes without saying,
then my career is already dead
and all the silence I do not say
reflects
a thousand years of poetry.
12.26.2022
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