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Poem

It can’t be art 

Spun in a windstorm of caustic insisting
Plastered like mud on the walls of Pompeii
Frescos of joy before charcoal was misting
Writing in ash, catastrophic display

Poetic spittle once cast to the broken
Scribbled in diction now smeared in the rain
So many follow yet nothing is spoken
Below these skies with the cherry red stain

There in the distance a magpie is flying
Scavenging wings while you shout from the ground
Screaming a truth midst the unending lying
Circling nightmares of places you’re bound

Can it be art if it’s not as remembered
Past of the days when you pissed in the snow
Spelling your name as your mother was watching
Turning in shame as if she didn’t know

Damning Picasso for changing direction
How can a nose sit so far from the face
Pollock’s spilled paint way beyond your detection
Charging a gallery, demanding your space 

Photo laced albums of cellophane pages
Developed by hand in a room with no light
Look at these kids and their digital stages
Feigning creative, it just isn’t right

Does this explain every tactical action
While you count blocks as if streets don’t exist
Pulling a woodpecker’s tail to get traction
Hiding the reason you just can’t resist

You say that art can be all that we’re thinking
Then in the same breath you say it’s not true
Often we wonder if you have been drinking
Make up your mind, it’s the least you can do

You are all artists, yes you who are reading
Writing your words that you put on display
Spilling your heart while emotions are bleeding
It breaks my heart when I hear someone say

It can’t be art, all those losers are dreaming 
Seeing and clicking and sending and such
Downloaded images, videos streaming
When the truth is, you are just out of touch

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