And then we are not

March 10, 2012


 

There was one they found with a needle in his arm. OD’d. Another who died of a heart attack. With a gun in his hand. One in a psychiatric ward. One in jail. One on a bottle. One on an oxygen tank. One living in the suburbs with his family. All artists. Of different degrees. None wanted to suffer. Most to be truthful. It is a life that promises nothing. And gives what it promises. It is everyone’s life bared down to its essentials. Without the retirement home. And the bank account. We are all alive. And then we are not.

 

 

 

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I Am A Landscape Painter

My face is gone. Senses bared like skin pulled back over a face by a coroner. Etherized on a table. I can hear the piano keys eating fingers. The tenor’s voice has no mouth. I can smell cancer on her clothes. The soft touch of shade between her legs. Taste the liquor of God in the sky. I have lobotomized the education system from every hemisphere. Taken my censors out on the town and gotten them hammered. My wiring is in chaos. The owl is not in the sky; the sky is in the owl. The artist does not stand aloof from his work but steps into the canvas and tries to paint his way out. I paint nothing on the canvas until it is there. The world does not exist; it appears.

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