Why poison the frame?
There is no way to get away from it.
Even if the art is surrounded by a moat of mud – the art is still the art.
Though the heart is dressed in rags, it beats as well in a tuxedo.
A foot trodding the path doesn’t spin the earth. But that’s another thing.
Is the speaking part of the pencil, the lead, the wood or both?
The marks come from the lead but the movement comes from man via wood.
A flicking of thought.
But why poison the frame?
Why spike the punch and refashion the mind?
Why blunt the wit and smoke out the poet?
Turning the dials.
Playing god, perhaps.
Attempting to steer by doing Shanghai on the captain.
Pulling the carpet to see if the monkey can dance.
