The words ran together in the end,
like a watercolor the artist
splashed his glass of Perrier upon.
The colors were still his colors,
the underlying design his design,
but the product of his imagination
had been torqued and twisted,
gyred and plaited, dripping
to the floor, leaking on his shoes,
the temporary to permanent
and the permanent to trash.
And, in the end, no one noticed.
Thus is art—-words, pictures, images
and creations of serious fancy.
I tell you this because I won’t lie,
even though these lies I tell you
might be art, too, once they dry.
This is the 100-word poem I just dashed off in order to get my production of poems in May off the Number 13. That makes 14 poems and 21 stories. Add that to the 30 poems I wrote during Poem-a-Day April and I can attest that writing can be a fecund bitch and a harsh mistress who’ll bleed you dry…like my artistic lies you honor with your reading.