Autobiography of Red,
probably wouldn’t have picked up it on my own.
The Greek influence intimidates me,
lacking a classical sense.
Stesichorus’ fragments of Geryon mirror my psyche,
choppy, lost, filled in,
a cracked mind,
super-glued back together by psycho analytics.
Anne Carson puts the pieces together
with a modern backdrop,
mortared by the itch of a masculine youth.
Geryon photographs a dead fly floating in a bucket—
light catching its prismatic wings.
I find a dead butterfly half-smashed on pavement.
Its wings uniform, iridescent teal,
body a neon, lime green.
I stopped, looked, I started walking away.
Should I take a picture?
The hesitation said: Yes, this is where Art lives.
If I knew Geryon,
I would assure him
there is nothing wrong with his aesthetic.
Only the wounded see beauty in wounds.
We both are
constantly searching for moments of
introverted peace,
jarred away from the apex of nirvana
by reality TV worthy problems.
Together we linger in unnoticed moments,
tuning into reality,
cranking the sound,
bumping the base,
drowning out Hercules.
Chestnut Cowboy 