In honor of KatieDavis, Chelsea and I have been exploring our inner poet. Unfortunately Chelsea has accepted how bad hers is and refuses to post it. But, I on the other hand, am not afraid of failure. Because I am infinitely better than her, I give you my poem....
river. as you watch me-- my river. as I lean to dip a finger in the icy water-- river stalker. picturing me pressed pink-- bubblegum pink, like sunkissed flesh, as you watch.
"'Picasso.' He whispers like a priest. 'Picasso. Who painted the truth, molded it, ripped it from the earth with two angry hands.'" (118)
"Picasso sure had a thing for naked women. Why not draw them with their clothes on? Who sits around without a shirt on, plucking the mandolin?" (118)
"I don't like the first chapters. Besides all the naked women, he painted these blue pictures, like he ran out of red and green for a few weeks" (119).
"He painted circus people and some dancers who look like they are standing in smog. He should have made them cough" (119).
"The next chapter steals my breath away. It takes me out of the room. It confuses me, while on little part of my brain jumps up and down screaming, 'I get it! I get it!' Cubism. Seeing beyond what is on the surface. Moving both eyes and a nose to the side of the face. Dicing bodies and tables and guitars s if they were celery sticks, and rearranging them so …