37. the arc of art

 

the art is the form | cast aside

as a glance | eye is the cup

holds its breath | in the eye

red for mercury | blue for bowels

the vein in | the marble | the

blood that it beats | a swallow of

bird | in the swinging of wings

paint cracked | into cavern

decay | of the meaning | the

thought of what it is | the be

now the been | were the was

were he well | the blank stare

out of marble | our faces

of stone | carved into flesh

we see the blood | run

in it | through it | the

patience of painting it all

away | to shape that perfect

piece | that is everything

you never see | or can see

 

the act is the force | to insist

and persist | the form doesn’t

matter | all matter is | is

perception | is this sense

of what it is | is n’t it?

what if most | what if

most great art | were scrawled

on napkins | chewed and

swallowed an | instant

after creation | and regurgitated

from the body | in an enhanced

form | what if | this were

the art | and the motion toward

art | the pose an artist | took

to bring the self | whole but

inchoate | into the bowl of

the hands of the artist

accepting the gift | given back

by the body | the glowing

representation of | all notions

of purpose | the reason for

singing? | and what if | the

what if the artist | tumbled

it into your hands | for you?

 

the apt is the fork | the stab of

the tines | the bleeding of blood

laying hands on | the place

of the rupture of | the body as

marble | porphyry | teak

the leak of a | tear | the slip of

the blood | all of it given back

nothing taken | but offered up

as penance | and purpose

the strange way the hand held

itself | still but | waiting

to hold | wanting to handle

hoping to be something

greater than itself | hoping

to represent | the self

in everyday life | bleeding

beaten | vomiting | the tears

running | as the wax melts

out of their eyes | puddles in

a hand | dries | into marble