Artist

you know

no love,

no passion

no style

no faith,

no truth

no eternity

no youth

no wisdom

no love.

Artist

you know

nothing

of these things

except

the ones

you concoct

on

shreds of canvas

in an

empty room,

over used

under-enthused.

You know

no lyrics no

form no

guile no

history,

cause those who

wrote the stories

stuffed the pages

into their yellow

pillow cases,

You are truly

anxious for authorship.

Artist

your fundamentals’

lacking,

deficient in

A through E

you wet your palate on

second-hand-me-downs,

you try eat culture

you anorexic sure,

no credential,

no credit, credo, creed,

do you

Artist

remember the

smell and feel

of  your potential?

That resident-alien,

ex-pat, ex-lover

of your anemic culture?

Last time I saw her

she was toting a tattered

canvas bag through silent

mettle detectors.

Artist,

forgetful waves

nibble away

at your footprints,

may indigestion prevail,

and may the belly of this

gluttonous sea of amnesia

wretch and spew you

viscerally

into the mouths

of the New Hungry

who wait, wide eyed

in empty rooms,

picking at scabs/scraps

in anxiety.

©2006 Debra Providence

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