I was once offered four dollars
A portrait to do 300+ portraits
For employee birthdays
By the wife of a CEO of
An award winning company
A price that would barely
Cover the cost of materials
Shall we discuss the
Vestiges of this society painter?
Who feels real?
And trompe l'oil?
 |
| Credit to Off Book |
Shall we discuss mortgages
Canna-friendly cleaning ladies
And those descended from
Chauffeurs, farriers and kings?
From hobos and drunkards
And queen-kissing ministers?
The merits and drawbacks of inventory
And the cost of goods sold?
The need to be a mechanic in the garage
A maid in the living room
Guy Fieri in the kitchen
A physicist, educator, investor, saint
And a whore in the back seat?
And do it tight lipped while
Baking cookies and pouring wine
For the Friday elite?
 |
| An asana. |
Do it while going to funerals
Doctor appointments for those
Who qualify for help because
They were not condemned to be
Someone else's person
Silk purses and sows' ears
Pain begotten by negligent definitions
Of "odorless" and an industry that relies on
Volatile hypnosis
Open schedules
Patron pensions
And housewarming
Carbon-powered festivals
Silent auctions
And awards that don't pay the bills
This is why they often say
"I started out in watercolor"
Framed in such a way to suggest
That gallerists had found a way
To make pulp and pigment
Unsustainable
Chastising those who choose
To cut off their ears
Because Friday Night
Don't pay the rent
 |
| Saved by zero. Credit Delancey Place, The Importance of Nothing. |
Do they teach this in
Art school?
Is there a course on the castigation of dilettantes
Or is that something learned
Between tokes and hors d'oeuvres
Required gallery sitting
And trips to the accountant?
Trust me, Karen
Art is an investment
An experiment in meaninglessness
And matter
Sold by engendered and fermented envy
A gimmick made of free time
And a sort of suffering love
 |
| Memento Mori from the Glue Factory, School Glue, Mica and Inktense on paper. |
Don't worry, I'll keep painting
But I don't like being for sale
To fair-weather bidders
Who sell tomorrow for a gambit
Standing on a leviathan pile of bones
Please tell me about
Patrons, saints
Opioid-fueled endowments
Personal protective equipment
We were never educated to use
And the goddess of spring
Who keeps it all going
Invisibility only this selkie
Could understand
A high price paid
For the transcendental
The poet always knew
Was on the wind
Unburdened by futile peddling
But who am I to explore
The secrets of Vril
And failures of kindness?
No comments:
Post a Comment