Eric Sydney is shiny as glitter.

Modeling his
warped vision of life
and fine art
at Indiana University,
I require
to be touched-
lightly.
Placed the way he
liked to paint;
naked and laid-out like
tapestry.

He scratches
coal black shapes.
Fleshes out life.

His vision of me
is Phoenix rising
from flames of a factory.
I only wear dead chicken wings.
Acetone fires
bite my thighs.

Eric paints soul.

Oil-stained eyes
squint through mine.
Lifeless the day
paint dried.
Eric was 24.

Six-years late,
I still cannot afford
to frame the bare art,

naked, rolled-up painting-
A left piece of Eric's hyper-heart.

Adept Press/Small Brushes, Forthcoming 2004