I can’t shut the door in my mind, I can’t kick
my habit, so I’m at it again, packing all my
creative tools to build a woman, that will never
fear, out of steel and cement to make me content.
She will be as fierce as can be, with Freddy Krueger
hands, spikes for nails and a pinhead made from
nails and cement. I’ll spare you the degrading details.
Her body will be tall and thin with faces for breasts and
maybe two on her back so she never has to look back.
I’ll make her with a smile and white cement, but may
stain her black or brown, but I won’t explain.
Creative juices are starting to flow through my
veins and I become alive as I think of what I can
do with my fingers, hands, and a barely working
brain that’s always in pain.
That I’m poor and don’t have a dime to spare, I can’t
use that as an excuse not to build a statue that’s on
my list. I’ll do it alone, stand that fifteen foot tall bitch
up In my sandy yard for all to see what caused my
intoxication and used to only exist in my imaginatio
Why in my heart do I love junk like I do?
Sometimes I just don’t know why when
I see an empty can or a rusted nail, I
can’t let it perish and instead of sending
it to its grave, I imagine it hanging on
someone’s wall where the public can
admire my genius for rescuing it from the
junk-heap and turning it into a piece of art.
Nuts and bolts welded into a woman’s torso
becomes beauty never before seen, When
like a miracle, the artist shapes her rump, he
fantasizes about its size and creates one so
large and round that he falls in love.
Like a child, I’ll lay it on the line. I collect common
things, even chicken wings that are thrown onto
the street, or into garbage cans. Others see only
trashy junk to be sent to a landfill, or maybe melted
down to be used again.
Like a miracle I’ll recycle a lot of junk and make it into
something that it’s not. I may create sculptures that move
and make people say OOOHHH and AHHHH and that my
friend, is interesting art.
What’s life if lived in a world where
one’s hope for a nice day is gray?
Without bright reds, cool blues, or sea-foam
green that’s the miracle in between
my world would be devoid of any joy that
only bright, clean color can bring to me.
Little do I care that I dream in black and white to let
me know how bleak a world without color can be.
No one has blond hair or blue eyes.
Everyone’s skin is a different shade of gray.
So are the houses, cars and even the sky, but
the moon sun and stars get their choice
to be any color they want, as long as it’s black