How can there be any other explanation for what’s going on here other than play?
There is nothing more than an inter-play of witnesses.
When someone demands to make a story of it,
Then you know an avalanche of lies is coming.
That’s all the trouble you’ve ever known.
And you created it all.
And the miracle of it all is that every day changes the seasons.
They seem to cycle, but the weather never stays the same.
It never gives you the same clouds.
It gives you similar patterns to ones you saw years or decades ago.
And the woman you don’t know – the new one called C,
Is just a version of one you knew as a child.
Or perhaps she’s not, and that’s what keeps you running on the treadmill.
You desire and attach yourself to running on the treadmill,
Getting all steamed up about what Henry Miller deemed a crack with hair on it,
Wanting to know the mind of another but not really wanting that if it means yet another siren,
With more shrill stories of tragedy and drama,
Of waves crashing on rock.
We, meaning the painter, the poet, the character artist, the NPC movie character, the garbageman and his sidekick.
We seek contrast.
We seek to put pattern against pattern and get giddy.
To throw silly into serious and call it humor.
To disrupt with blue and green, with yellow and orange,
To disrupt cool with the fire of drama and disrespect,
To join the other with the familiar in order to find a beat, a harmony,
A contrast from darkness to light,
From silence to sound,
From green to red from blue to orange,
And the areas they touch the yin and yang,
The dots in the void to make a lightning there,
To crack a thunder on the unsuspecting,
To jolt the complacent,
To awaken a sleeping world,
A world worth living in a world of indifference,
The drama, thunder, and lightning of a man with a pen,
A sword,
A paintbrush,
And the absurdity to call it art for money.
