We All Are Artists


A wild place, it hovers above us and makes us whole.
Retrieving the sky to steal its wisdom while spitting it out to create the tides, it is natural.
And all these charged roses, which they’ve tossed at us gladly; we’ll make with them the paper airplanes to be passed to us in our future.
Much to our surprise, none will wing.
So, why can’t you slide down to meet this drastic nightmare?
You’ll always have that scent, it’s very becoming.
And a tragic separation and change of perfumes, and all these worried spastic mothers in tattered nightgowns whom only wish to provide a better globe in which we’ll all sleep.
Heinous realms to divide and store, to talk about, trustees do our talking and machines do our walking, they rage.
But tonight fountains of grandeur will oil our eyes as if in Paris or outside the Lincoln Center.
As if the blinding concentration of the master painter or symphony pianist was dropped upon us from incomprehensible heights, the weight would be astounding and we’d all double over.
Later in non-leisure, outings, to travel outwardly west and north in search of new leaders, which we mainly become or create, ordained into thought and later to teach, the latter crevassing and crumbled, tomorrow is known.
But we pre-write this fabrication.
And if this is to be our fate then we’ve already lived it.
What’s making all divine noise is to be our provision and necessity.
Tragic though it must seem, these are wet sculptures, we must sculpt in control.