2016 04 19
Daniel stands on busy street corner, still
as ancient oak tree on farm field at dawn,
and watches people driving by in cars
to see if features of their souls match face
of David carved by Michelangelo.
"I want to paint their faces to reveal
mystery of human sorrow and desire,
so vision in my mind will activate
motions of my hand as it dips in paint
brush made of horse hair I smear across canvas,
but when I step back from painting, I made
from intense emotions surging in waves
of fertile angst from beating of my heart,
I see nothing true but meaningless smears
of color, like blood on sidewalk of fear.
I fail to convey through smears of wet paint
vibrant vision of complex human nature
since math of psychological despair
fails to calculate social regulations
which would allow viewers to analyze
unspeakable truths that destroy our souls."
Samson laughs as he watches pretty girl
with long golden hair blown by breeze glide past.
"You grow more pretentious with every day.
Paint people framed by landscape of their dream
as they interact with gestures of hands,
and vision of your mind will be revealed.
Or just smear paint to half-present their face
and people will think your painting profound
and give you lots of money for each painting.
That woman represents beauty of women,
and that man represents courage of men.
Each person on flat surface of their face
is nothing more than sterile stereotype.
No matter what vision of human life
you paint you will never gain wealth of fame
unless you know right people who control
gallery space where they display your art."
Daniel walks out to highway overpass
and stares at cars gliding in beams of light.
"My blood is paint that will brighten dull black
of asphalt highway with my angel soul."
Daniel jumps before giant semi-truck
and crumples on asphalt beneath large tires
that smear blood of his body on asphalt
in shape of delicate angel with wings
spread long and thin so he can fly to clouds
where raindrops wash his soul into dark stream
that flows in storm drain down to restless sea.
Samson sits all day in dark coffee shop,
writing surreal poetry in black books
for pretty college girl who holds his hand.
"His suicide was greatest work of art
he ever performed, painting highway black
with bright color of his pure star-born soul.
We are made of star dust, gleaming with spirits,
but so is garbage we bury in hills
where flowers sprout from rotting stench of death."
Penelope watches gold bird fly past
cafe window on flashing wings of hope.
"More I give love to empty out my heart
more I receive love from words people speak,
drinking visions from fountains of their eyes.
If we display paintings of damaged souls
Daniel left behind, we can both get rich
selling them to millionaires who pretend
they understand true principle of art."
Samson and Penelope sail white yacht
from Manhattan to Bahamas each year
where they sit all day on beach of gold sand,
and drink blood of sharks from bottles of wine.