I lost myself marooned on a desert island,
which is to say I found myself a darker shade of red.
The menu was narrow and what I could afford
was a salad I didn\'t want,
nobody likes fat free italian.
But when the menu is scarce, I take it
and just pretend its Key Lime Pie.
It is written by wise men
the dressing shall long outlast the lettuce
and before anyone was aware the fork
clacked and clicked and sought across the plate
eager to make dessert of the final stale cruton.
With all the bitter bites gone, the dressing
dank and acrid
is left to be licked from its basin.

I found I could do nothing but show the icon
of the plate to Woman.
The woman\'s eye is like a number three filter
and all my grays are just black and white to her.
I am marble statuesque, lacking smoothness.
My life is a still life,
a still life wilting under 40 watt bulbs
struggling to breath in a vase of water.
A pet rose struggling like all plants to sleep
when caffein consumes my veins,
alienating me as I reach for the sun
trying to tell the world I have chlorophyl
when every dream I thought I lost
just a mis-swallowed piece of lettuce.
It is woman\'s capacity to underexpose
with a touch that is of an absurd featherweight.

I am left facing the tears of the bald god
as it screams to be made immortal
and wishing for the touch of man,
like an invention of fire or parmegian cheese.

A still life like these lines hangs
displayed in an artistic gallery abstract
where the artist tried to say nothing in too much.
The chaos bears the title, \"Reep what you sew\".
A single line, perriwinkle, would have sufficed.