Stunning, filling blossom, sacred of our moment
embossed zipper on young thigh perhaps too
along with tattoo. I am in love with this.
But who am I just one of a creators
cement mixing machines.
A first encounter from around a corner's hope
I am passionate:
Passion five beautiful toes in her tennis shoe
how do I know her ankle tells me this.
Of colors everything has color.
Everything is bright or dim or dull never nothing.
A sigh between her legs from her knees.
Optimism, pessimism they collide
like wanting angry male lions while
lioness in heat never soft
until the victors dust clears.
A ponytail bright blue, brown or
green eyes upturned lashes staring
“I” beams thru my heart.
Blossoms are not forever that is why
they are special to lie upon and breath in.
Green can be so many things bright new
dull almost brown old.
My passion is my anger my love of all
things and feelings from inside a jar
to a universe beyond the burning stars.
The sound of a piece of steel hitting concrete
the sound of twenty pieces of steel hitting concrete
only to get her attention.
Drop a pin a whisper turning into s kiss.
A hollow log filled after rain water
is a trough from which to drink.
Weeping after reading a poem
I will stop but I could go on forever.
Tom Hatch paid his dues in the NYC soho art scene in late 70's 80's and early 90's. Aids was rampant, gays and those who visited the lower east side shooting galleries died. It was frightening time. He was awarded two National Endowment grants back then for sculpture, showed a lot and the The New Museum a couple of times. He taught at University of Florida inTallahassee, in new Jersey at Princeton. He got really close to the literary world his office was next to (name drop) Joyce Carol Oats' office and the University of Penn in the city "Of Brotherly Love".
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