Here is
A gallery,
Its cold pale walls
Hung with
Trembling parallelograms
Of vibrant color
Depicting
Whirling spaceships, summer mountain scenes,
High-kicking dancers
In swirling skirts,
The audience,
Some in pearls, some in jeans,
Gasps at marvels
Flowing from untrained brushes
I am here
Drowned in whiskey in my self-portrait;
A high-heeled woman in lace and silk
Sheds a tear
At the bloody colors
Of my prone body.
She pays some shekels,
Brings me home
To ride a wall
In her treasure chamber.
I hang in dusty silence
With companions of Lalique,
Faberge,
And grinning chiseled masks
From the Kongo Kingdom
I am a veteran
Of salons and glossy pages
With a gallery of my brothers and sisters
Who come inside
Only to schools and churches
Where the wide eyed or pious
Gasp in awe
Of the curios
Which are our lives
Our untamed
Pens and brushes
Show scenes of dank, forbidding jungles
Where we live
I endure a thousand
Clammy handshakes
And a few kind words:
“your art is
Sublime
In spite of
Who you are”
More shekels
Are exchanged; a few trickle
Into the artists’
Grubby hands
And we each
Stalk away
Into the coal black night
To our nests of wool and concrete
To paint our lives anew
In indigo and somber charcoal
Our art
Is as sublime as life
Because of
Who we are.
