Bronx impressionist ...

www.maxtutanoronha.com

 

Michael Figdor

And the book is on the table and the phone is in the corner of the room.

 

 

Michael asked me if the glass was half full ...

 

 

Yes, my glass is empty

as the thoughts that ran out of my mind,

The sun that burned my skin

amplified the echo

of the white wine pouring down on my moments of solitude.

Am I alone, or is the world getting to be half empty?

Is it a game and who is it to blame?

God is mad ...

 

And I stayed there, staring at the phone,

not reading, surfing, drinking,

just empty,

as the thoughts that I had and I couldn't catch as it was burglarized by my brain,

and as hot as the Phoenician Sun, I felt no pain.

 

Everything seems to be empty

I hear half truth and I drink half glasses full of lies,

I don't know what to believe anymore

Is everything full, empty or just diluted?

 

I think outside of the box

some kids will get chicken pox, adults are scared to death...

I make no sense, it doesn't make any sense.

I'm leaving in the past tense,

or just tense, with uninterrupted news, metrics, analytics, craziness, graphs, and the weather report.

 

And the glass seats half full, because the other half evaporated like thin smoke, I think Michael that it just got polluted or diluted and while I can,

let me go collect my brain, scarred on the sidewalk, I cannot think straight today.

Maybe I drank to much water.

Is it full or half full or half empty?

I don't know.

Maybe I'll know tomorrow.

 

 

MTN 06/25/2020

To Michael Figdor

Done