Dennis Leroy Kangalee

my tears are those of a failed artist

my heart beats like the muted hum 

of a speed bump 

on top of a hill

my aches are those of a body un-worn

and worn out

seeking to stretch its limbs and flesh

across the space of time

always searching for the right moment

to dance

or just take a nice walk

running has ceased to exist

the only mad-dash is in my head

thoughts reeling

like the uncleaned movies

i could not make

the dismal drips of paint

i could not splash

all brewed in some slight

retardation of a brain-soul

that simply may have been 

too smart for its own good

or too dull instead where it should

have glimmered, have spawned

at least a dozen bright memories to 

be shared and recalled

as opposed to a handful of ‘dusty almosts’

that face is the mask 

of a king forced to wear the mask

of a jester

no

the face of a man

unable to face himself

because although he may have been 

a foot ahead of the others

when they finally arrived

he was unable to move

and he stayed in their dust

when their feet 

peddled

up that barckled mountain

splinters heaving back

into his eyes

that’s why they’re red

it’s not from his passion

It’s from his pain

when angst has no outlet

it eats itself

like a stomach hovering

over a stone cold prison floor

empty

or a malnourished child

dead before noon

but the hunger in an unrequited man

lingers forever

with the nausea

of a failed artist

or the shadow of a man

whose cast 

has grown tired 

of its subject