by Glen Fewkes
Second Place Poetry
Every word that drips out is just a Krylon commentary.
Hop the fence and get into that mental railroad cemetery.
I sketch a master plan.
Angles.
Each verb dropped is a blast of purple.
I move the can like shaken-baby syndrome.
Every ounce finds a home on the steel.
Metaphors make motion.
Adjectives anoint the outline
from brain
to hand
to can
to line
a stack of bricks like white canvas,
artistic rape every time color hits stone.
Super high-gloss intention double coats your bones.
My mouth filters lyrical toxins in the atmosphere.
And if it’s unnatural, then show me nature.
And if it’s destruction, then show me creation.
All six days in like six minutes,
and God said, let there be aerosol.
