in this picture i paint

and it leaves
occasionally

not the addiction to words
but the
ability to make them cut

there are days spent
waiting for rain or the deaths
of my teenage idols

long afternoons wasted
beneath
some new brutal silence
and the furniture seems familiar
in this house

colors i recognize
and the damp smell of
decaying wood

the sound of my son
downstairs laughing as his mother
chases him through the
kitchen

and the cats all cry for food
and my hands curl in
on themselves
as the need for violence becomes
too big to ignore

we are none of us dogs
in this picture i paint and we
are none of us gods

we are only ourselves
trapped in the world of
human noise where
anything can be forgiven