Self Portrait

January 14, 2011
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The pen curves at the slope of his neck.
Arches at the dip in his chin.
Rises steadily over his nose, into his hair
where it is allowed to be free, just for a moment.
All that is left is the eyes.
One is drawn dark, lost, and everything else real.
A pause, and then the other.
The second eye is not real.
It is too small.
too wide.
too ugly.
So the pen does what it knows.
It scribbles.
It darkens.
It thickens.
Until there are no eyes.
There is no nose, or mouth, or chin.
All that is left is uncontrolled expression.
An erratic blotch of ink
under a wild scribble of freedom, that lasted for just a moment.





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