Monday, September 5, 2011

All Of Us Are Artists


Our fathers farmed land
That yielded like flesh,

The sun in the sky
Dying of heat stroke.

But who are we?

White noises coming from our mouths
Colliding across the dust and distance:

I don't remember.

I wasn't there.

They did it all without me.

So we leave that shit behind,
The stink of cows and chores circling
In the cyclones of Ohio.

But who are we, really?

Broken souls on the bus.

Because here,
The left lane is for people we don't like.

We came to this place to write and paint.
That's what people do now, isn't it?

Say it loudly so it vibrates,
Echoes ending in a whisper in a public restroom,
Far below the city:

Wipe your ass with art.
There's more where this came from.

Falling out like vomit.

Collecting like insects.

We all remember the moment
When our lifelines became a single point.

A beginning and and end.

1 comment:

  1. This is a good one. Especially like the lines:

    White noises coming from our mouths
    Colliding across the dust and distance:

    I don't remember.

    I wasn't there.

    They did it all without me.

    So we leave that shit behind,
    The stink of cows and chores circling
    In the cyclones of Ohio.

    ReplyDelete