Poetry and Art

We say that words have meaning, and we hold them in high regard. Words are precious, but they can lose their power, for example, when they are translated. Like a religion, which language is the “true” language that will get you to heaven?

Words have meaning. Paint has mood and feeling. When you take words out of their element—the printed page, on a stage—and put them on a piece of canvas mingled with paint, the words don’t so much lose some of the power they have on the printed page, but their power changes. The words are detached from their meanings and the painting becomes a different experience, as do the meanings of the words. And the painting changes. Words on canvas; words as paint strokes. The words become material, like the paint.

Art is no more precious than a word. A  rip, a tear, a fray. A spatter of paint. It doesn't destroy the painting or make it lose value. It can only add.

Writing Poetry At Work In The Men’s Room Stall
 With pants bunched around
shined black shoes and tie
tucked safely into an open shirt button
so as not to piss on it
he sits in the stall
while black oxfords pinstripes
pant legs swim around him.
 
He peers through cracks to see from whom he's hiding
like in a shark cage; safe
if he stays inside. 
He writes
 
secret poetry
in the business whirlpool
just trying to get it down
on paper before he's
eaten alive.
 
The Business Meeting
So seductively time seeps
out through your veins
pooling around your wingtips
            or you, Ms. Corporate I'm Going Places
            be careful of your patent-leather pumps
            step carefully around the sticky puddles
            collecting beneath the conference table
            do not soil your white stockings.
Your smile will soon turn to a grimace
            as lost opportunity twists your heart
            like an old rag, unknowingly you’ll strangle
            as the intoxicating sound of your own voice
            replaces the importance of your life
            with the irrelevance of your action items. 

The Button-Down Man
 Into his closet
every morning he reaches
and pulls out
a button-down shirt.
 
Cotton, maybe striped
if he's daring.  And a tie
solid blue or red
or perhaps polka-dot.
 
Always a jacket.
He wouldn't think of going out
without a jacket. 
He wouldn't feel complete or whole.
 
Every thing buttoned,
every thing knotted: collar,
tie, stomach. 
Umbrella-wrapped tight. 
 
Fingers tweeze
a strand of lint in the mirror
from his lapel.
Now he is ready. 
 
To work he drives. Parks
in the same spot. Engages
parking brake
just to be sure. 
 
It rained last night
so he picks his way around
worms bloating
in the parking lot. 
 
Orion
Oh gallant hunter
Chasing bulls through the night.
Striding bold in spite of
Or is it because of
The cold.
You have gained obvious strength since I last saw you
Carrying twins on your shoulders light
Faithful Sirius trots at your heel trusting
His Master's guidance on your heavenly journey
That will continue long after I've completed mine.