If I were color blind, truly blind to color,
I would just see the cock, the heavy outline black,
the balls’ forest razored curve
coming out of chiaroscuro.
If I were color blind, there would only be a burning,
a melting of wax, my straw hat’s dripping brim
haloing my naked body and the wind
warm in the subway tunnel.
There would only be a punk rock concert of sorts,
a bunch of colorless gashes and broken lines,
shouted blunt notes
in a supposed clash of harmony.
There would be a mere wash of canvas smearing
a meaningless flat background and random spray
instead of these foaming turbulent waves
crashing at a surfer’s gaze.
I would leave my own palette full of hardening blobs
if beneath the surface there
were no oil.
I would only see the fact that we no longer fuck
if I were color blind. An archer the other day pulled
back his bow and I opened my mouth to Haley’s Comet,
the one that comes once in a blue moon.
He and I would’ve been just two scary dogs
raising their haunches to a gym toilet,
had his golden towel not fallen to Earth.
There would’ve been a mere shower of nebular particles
in the wake of the earthly celestial body fading
its pinkish grandeur.
If I were color blind, maybe life would be easier
and all this art
the texture of a night forest.
Craig Martin Getz BA Humanities from Cal State University, Northridge & Universidad Compultense, Madrid; has been living in Barcelona since 1989. English teacher. Ex-Governing Body member to the European Youth Parliament in Berlin. Photographer; several solo exhibitions in Spain. Work on FLICKR. His poetry has appeared in DIAGRAM, Mastodon Dentist, Blue Earth Review, Barcelona INK, Emerge Literary Journal, Subliminal Interiors, The Gorilla Press, Agave Magazine, Wilde Magazine, and Northwind Magazine.