Other Poems by:

David Mark Speer

An Endless Source of Pleasure

Her hands flow across the blank canvas,
Tracing the forms she will carve out of the stark white,
She picks up the brush,
Dips it slowly into indigo,
Turns the end between her forefinger and thumb,
Pulls the now sharp inky tip from the pot…

Her right arm extends
She fixes her left eye on a point seven hundred miles away,
In a landscape that has not yet come to be –
	A slash of blueblack flows in a line from the lower right-hand corner,
It will become the side of a long, long road…

Every moment,
Every stray stroke is an act of a play
And the players are cast as the stage is built,
All these motions,
Every little move is creation,
And to see the thing in action,
Before the results are clear,
This, above all – even the final picture – is an endless source of pleasure.

End. Rev2 © David Mark Speer 19 January 2009

With Only Myself in Mind

Pinpoint accuracy,
Peace with honor,
Death warrant,
Stolen kisses…

Book of life,
Holy writ,
Mortgage agreement,
Satisfaction guaranteed…

The strength of ten men,
Margin of error,
Mistaken identity,
Funhouse mirror…

Rising tide,
Alternating current,
The happy medium,
Poor but happy,
One’s true self…

Glory rising morning time,
Dream veil lifting,
Desire made flesh, manifest, unleashed,
Justice is served.

End. Rev2 © David Mark Speer
31 October 2008, 12.41 pm.

Where I Left Off

There’s no way of telling when and where,
The only questions worth answering are how and why –
These are the only two questions,
The ones that lead to all the others,
As soon as the answers are provided,
Allowed –

In quite the same way as a hollered call for a “Spicy Hot Dog,” is absolutely right in the 	
            most right of circumstances,
In much the same way NBA cheerleaders in spandex are righteous,
Nobility lives in my need, 
Pride lies next to rottenness,
And I need nothing more than a bearded clam,
Or a sweet piece of fish,
A fish sandwich for a lady,
And such a sandwich is provided…
	There again, something given –

When pleasantries no longer suffice,
A man has to resort to running on funny or just being lucky,
Luckier than the next jerk from Miami,
The next guy doing his thing,
Making cool,
Smooth moves…
	And right about now the bullshit factor begins to bite,
	The self-consciousness built into the act of writing,
	Allowing it to flow from heart to head to hands to paper right on the spot –

At some point the question becomes,
Why the fuck not?
A question worth answering,
Although no clear answer is in sight or mind,
Somehow the idea of everything being all right comes through most clearly,
Somehow what I need and what I want become the same thing,
So that if I need paper,
Someone will drop a receipt,
And if I need dinner,
I’ll open some can and there will be a meal –

Into the breach there may charge six hundred or just sixteen,
And what is given will be taken,
As long as there’s another question to be asked,
Another answer to fret over,
There will always be a point to take up from where I left off.

End. Rev6 © David Mark Speer 19 January 2009 12.28 p.m.

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