what I was getting into. It is a callous thing, names.
I have said in names there is power - I cannot
control you like jazz. I gave you music.
It is the pushing forces, powerful
and contemplative, but they only rebound upon me.
Another piece chiseled off me. These forces give you
form already tested by the kiln...
your kiln that you had before I found you.
I drew you popularity, a sociological nightmare
that gives rise phobic tendencies in me. I did that for you;
you who are already there, loved by crowds in smokey clubs.
You were Dao, existing with your surroundings. Natural fool;
your antagonist is slave to his own shortcomings -
incomplete understanding and misapprehension:
uncoordinated and sloppy hands.
The painting of you, a pastiche of purple and red,
is washing away like amateurish confidence.
I redraw stick figures and call them myself,
a two dimensional man holding nothing in his hands.
This new man has no hands. This sticks but he cannot take up creation
with you - you are better than he. My hands grow withered and splintered.
Shards of a painting.
You and I are broken stained glass
with no light shining from within.
I cannot touch what I can no longer see.