That is what it was to me.
Art
Lives scrapped out
with a dull knife.
There along the river’s bank.
With scrabbles of rubble
and pieces of fabric
wadded up
to make a pillow.
Artist.
“You’re an artist”, I said.
All of this
The river
The pillow
You
This is Art.
His eyes welled up like the river
that boiled like soiled blood.
“Fuck You Man!
This ain’t no goddamned Art.
This is me!
And this shit is hard.
Sit in your goddamned self
and call this . . . Art?
Fuck you man.
And your art-shit self.”

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