PLOT July 27 2011 Dance Truck/Blake Beckham

The Muses Are Heard (Or I Make Paintings Of Dancing)

I once heard our Universe

made itself 

with elegant

measured principles

resembling a dance

dervish like

but slower

see only sentience

skitters precariously quick.

Reassured, I worked

a flushed complexion

finite lines crossed palms

precise then fading

time-immune

for now with

quiet still affected practice.

Small Fierce Cimmerians, 
invasive

 bashful and somehow still cheap,

as persistent immaturity rears

with halting body

good enough to

selfishly admit this

observation plain

of private heartbeats

and their behavior.
I am a King Baby painter.

Still comforted

with dark matter
and tiny charms 

tucking themselves

neatly into bellies of

what beautiful beasts  (!)

brilliant and faux.

Now perfectly plastic,
mine for you.