Nothing is anchoring us.
We float into the tropical void
every time the wind picks up.
General Paint, our captain, stands
blue or red, Oh! Our lovely guide,
or life force, or tidal wave.
He stands blue or red, on
the deck, he guards the crew
from the night's poor dreams
that always try to crawl up our
noses, into our dream sphere.
General Paint babies us,
our mother; the father; the ship.
General Paint, the captain, reads us
(to us) his poems, his stories, his
tales of past lives, past ships.
We have these, typewritten, or
ink-stained, on and under our
flesh. We are his works, we
work for him, of him.
General feeds us, he bathes us
in the holy ocean water, a lake.
Not a few miles from us
at any point, the lake follows
him, like a preying lion, like
a servile dog.
The captain does not dream,
he made us, his dreams, he
animated us with a holy
colored pencil, not a permanent marker.
General Paint is above the clouds,
below the sea, next to us,
in our minds, General Paint
has eyes to see us all, ears
to listen to the songs written for him.
We are the crew, or the fascinated,
or the minutes.
We
are his manifesto.