There’s a hummingbird I’d like to paint–
Well, not the hummingbird itself;
That would be a chore set by an idiot:
“Here’s a paintbrush, now go find the hummingbird
And give her a refresh.
Then polish the eavestrough.”
Could be a euphemism for slothfulness:
Frank’s off ‘painting the hummingbird,’
It is only a hummingbird image I am after,
Wielding nothing but brushes and paint,
Not to trap it, only
Welcoming its likeness
Onto my canvas,
And I normally would get right to it, but am
Sifting the wrong assumption
Must be kept separate.
To fuss when you find peanut butter in the jam jar is
To miss a tasty treat on a spoon,
Handy when you are quick on your way out the door,
Perhaps charged with painting a live,
To be vulnerable and precious,
Is to pretend to be vulnerable,
Like grocery store art,
Pretending to be art,
Tolerable possibly, though sadly,
With a free jar of jam.
To be vulnerable,
To be fully present,
Is to transcend time and space,
To acknowledge mortality but as a
Here, in the greatness, and also the
Life has humour:
The funniest thing is the anemic righteous
Choking on a laugh.
Death isn’t funny.
Also, death is funny.
I once wrote a scene where an elderly man
In a Tilly hat,
Died from a heart attack after he was pranked,
When he opened the outhouse door to find
An automated fish
That moved and sang.
Try the veal, I’ll be here all week.
I can still sit on the pavement
With an addict, and
Feel so much love.
Now, to the hummingbird.