a friend of a friend of Fred Finnegan’s fell fast into a full on forty winks,
settling over his sleeping state within a second of sinking into the soft sofa,
calmed into comfort on a couch that captures every coin to come in contact
with a crack along its crap colored cage of cushions, worn white with wiggles
after Finn suffered for seven years, silently seeking insight and inspiration,
scanning the screen for a sacred scene symbolizing his soul’s salvation,
thoughtless for many years because his one true love left his head heartless,
randomly recording reruns over homemade movie memories of his former fame,
the regular routine of a recluse, repeatedly repressing Replay and Repause
in pursuit of that perfect person placed in the perfect pose,
positioned in that perfect place at the perfect point in time,
so that he can piece together the perfect painting
a partially eaten plate of cheap Chinese cuisine cooks completely
in the rows of radiant rays that rain from the surface of a swollen Summer sun,
a bright light bulb magnified by the glass panel windows of apartment #808,
chicken lo mien naturally reheated in a solar energy oven,
leftover noodles from the night before the night before last
calling to the cravings of a cold blooded kitchen cockroach king,
calling it to come and climb the crooked columns of the coffee table,
calling it to come and conquer the confusing clutter of crushed coke cans,
countless cereal bowl cups and crumpled candy wrappers
using its sixth sense of survival to find the finest feast,
a breakfast even the itty bitty brain of a bug won’t soon forget
the tube box blinks between black and blue as the friend of a friend
finds his first thoughts and his eyes fine-tune themselves to the flood of fresh light,/
forcing their faces to focus on all five fingers of the flimsy fan
dangling dangerously with its dust blades dancing in dawn’s daylight,
revolving as it recirculates dead skin cells and cigarette ash with each rotation,
loose screws stirring up a Summer stench so strong it stings his nose to smell it,
an intoxicating blend of vomit, trash, unchecked body odor, and death,
stirring the friend of a friend fully awake with a sudden stomach sickness,
sending him stumbling out of sleep, barfing up a backwards breakfast in the bathroom,/
whereas the cockroach smelled old lo mien from beneath the refrigerator
the last great artist ate his last great meal at five that faithful morning, August the Eighth, /
Rocky Road and a bottle of Fat Ass Cab, full and finally feeling high off happiness,/
lighting his last Lucky Strike, a sweet smoke dessert savored with a selfsacrificial smile,/
slap happy in his own heaven, a painters paradise portrayed in the pupil of a self portrait,/
deep and dark, drawn by the dreamer of the first dream during the first dawn,
recreated here as copper coins on canvas, the finishing touches to Finn’s reformed face/
drying while his tears of joy blend and blur into black blotches of undying ink,
Finn’s everlasting Note to Self hidden behind his face and nailed to the wall,
lost last words, suicide secrets similar to the unseen side of everything’s image
by twelve, the echo from Finn’s 8mm would be broadcasted nationwide,
death before rebirth after an eight year long battle with antisocial isolation,
the fate of an artist who painted over his scars to highlight their beauty
after the cracks across his broken hearted imagination split his soul
into shape shifting silhouettes of surrealism that only seemed to shine
inside the subconscious shadows of sleep, still in sight of the sun’s insight,
suddenly struck by spiritual inspiration after sitting silent for seven years,
finally finding his freeform features forever reframed in infinities’ reflection
the cops calmed the crowd of crime scene camera crews when they came with questions, /
madman microphones moving amidst the media mania of modern middle America,
riot ready rat race reporters recording the police reports before rewriting reality,
blood breaking news disrupting day time dramas, senseless soap opera storyboards/
killing off a lead role, eye to eye with the archetype of everything’s existence,
everything’s eventual entrance and exit, the ending act for an “A-List” actress,
regularly scheduled programs interrupted by On-Air obituaries about an artist,
fictional fate forgotten through the news flashed photos of Finn’s famous finale
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Submission Name: the fate of Finn
