This is not a pipe, I can't smoke in it
It's just an image symbol in the cross draw in my mind's eye
Even any meaning or feeling I can attribute
It is not an identity or self or entity,
Just what I make of it
A creature in the land of still life objects
Yet there are so many mythologies, so many meanings
Of an object or an action,
Nothing or anything
In search of somethingness,
Yet I strive to solidify the object in a sense category
With its own feel and color
Warm and feeling just right
Like the feeling of a pipe, lighted at midnight
Without addiction, just pure art, poetic gesture
Things from the noumenic nomenclature
In a musical array of moments,
Which don't know how to die nor ever will or would
Still, I and all shall remain.
