I'm a living tall tale, lost in the long streets of the cty

Here is a new poem I've been working on, if anyone actually reads this (not that I really ever update) let me know what you think!

Monet laid down his brush and wept for the beauty in all things

Even with a perfect pallet at my disposal,
I could not paint the patterns of your portrait
the way Monet produced haystacks

at the fall of summer, brushstrokes easily
finding their path from top to bottom, plucked
up by the eager brush held by a steady

hand. Monet looked up from his masterpiece
and sighed. She was beautiful, her majestic smile
hid firmly in every grain head

bunched for sale. The firmness of her
land hardened hands was gentle against his skin.
Her words sprouted ideas like spring

scattered seeds piercing into the earth’s
stony depths and pressing upwards with tenacious
vigor, breaking the hard pavement

in Chailly, reaching high for the sun, which Monet had painted

I don't know if anyone reads this at all, but here is a new poem, give me feedback, I could use it:

David Gilmour as a Prayer

It’s hard to picture you now—from afar—I close
my eyes and try. I see the lines of your face—
soft eyes, dense hair—but then you’re gone.
I try to hear your voice. I remember conversations—
how great the new Manson tape was, how the Phils
fucked it up in the fifth, how brilliant David Gilmour’s
writing was on Wish You Were Here. I think I hear
your voice—two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl—
maybe a laugh, then you’re gone—
only Gilmour is left.

I try to picture the last time we talked. I remember
you said something about hanging out with Tiff
and Kevin Friday night—I couldn’t, I already had plans.
This time I hear your voice—“I’ll call Sunday.”
I try to picture you—holding the knife, trying
to cut out whatever made it hurt all the time and after
you jump, right before the belt snaps tight, you smile—
did you trade a walk on part in the war for a lead role
in a cage—and then you’re gone—
only Gilmour is left.

I'll start this blog off with a re-telling of one of my favorite American Folk Tales:

Have you heard the tale of the greatest betrayal in the history of Man? Nay, it is not one that can be found in the bible, but in the halls of American history. It is not the betrayal of Jesus by the coward Judas, for at least Jesus knew the betrayal was to come. This man loved the coward, trusted him, and the coward shot him dead when his guns were off and his back was turned. This is the betrayal of Jesse James by the coward Robert Ford. Ford traveled with Jesse, ate his food and slept in his house. Jesse came to trust Ford, even allowing him to lay plans for heists and fly solo to find out information on their mark. Jesse trusted Ford, Jesse loved Ford almost as much as he loved his brother, Frank.

One hot day, while the James gang relaxed in their home, Jesse took off his vest to fight the heat. With his guns displayed in the open, Jesse decided he should remove them, as not to draw unwanted attention to the James gang. Jesse proceeded then to step atop a chair to adjust and dust a painting hanging on the wall. With his guns off and his back turned, the coward Robert Ford shot Jesse. One bullet to the back of the head and Jesse was dead, laying face first in his own blood, while his wife cooked breakfast for the James gang in the next room. Jesse's wife, upon hearing the gun shot, ran to the room and cradled her dead husbands bloody head in her lap and wept. Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life and two children support. But that coward, Mr. Ford, shot him in the head and laid poor Jesse in his grave.

My bio is long and obtuse. Anyway, here is the skinny. My writing tends to focus on the converging of ancient ideas (myth, folktales, mysticism) and modern society (big buildings, hustle and bustle, lots of cars). There is a lot of mayhem to be had when the two meet. Thats where this is going. I'm going to post new stuff and see if anyone reads it.

Thanks,

Blaine.