Tossing
Word water balloons
At an art gallery,
You force passions
To mix and wrestle
Their liquid wills.
Your bullets burst,
Stain, and slide down
Glorified fruit,
Landscapes, and skin.
They are
Your tears
As you fend
For yourself.
We love
to be reminded
of the enemies we’ve killed
so walls are filled
with trophies
and crudely scratched out
signatures
that certify each victory,
we frame what we call art.
Fire,
mostly still confined,
is scented, colored,
and circled with glass,
mischievous children
and their parents
snuff out wicks with fingertips
or blow away numbered flames
on birthdays.
Dark
is where
we’re comfortable,
hunched over and grunting,
we make our way
each night
to the same hole
to neither see
nor think.
Scribbles form flowers
Easily enough.
Trees and birds come alive
With watercolor stuff.
Stray pen marks
Turn to effortless sunshine.
Just a few fingerprints
Make a picture mine.
Seated in a circle,
My classmates all knew
Art was what
We were meant to do.
Being an artist was easy,
But we were talented, of course,
Until the teacher told us
To each draw a horse.
Negative space,
The nothing place
In a work of art.
It’s the invisible net
Somewhere in the sky
That catches balloons.
Slide your sweaty pencil in between
The squishy curves in the brain.
Some people paint by mouth or foot,
No fingers required,
So steady your thoughts and
Slide the seismograph needle
Sprouting from your head
Over the bright white
Empty receipt to record
The disturbing distance
Between where you are
And where you thought you’d be.
