Rain, mist, Rain.
Synthetic awnings cast water bombs
That splash between nose and lenses.
It’s a hike to Chelsea from Koreaville.
You duck into a pay-by-weight
Kimchi shop to fuel up for the
Twelve block trek.
Art at Whitehall, art on every floor,
Art by appointment only, art as
Video, art as manhole cover, art
as “Hello-my-name-is” tags, art
From Kansas, a Korean lady who glues
The outside frills of name badges in rows
Ten across and 300 high, quite derivative.
Seated, pooped, twelve-dollar park.
But what a relief to have been in the art.
You drive back to Carolina, land of crafts,
See Boston galleries showing gray,
Young wine merchants taking chances on
The stuff they hang in galleries. You have
The time to paint, but don’t today.
Heat, sun, heat.
Twenty five years of painting. One huge
Pile waiting to be stored, maybe framed,
Maybe dipsy-dumpstered, maybe sold off
The wall of Port City Java. To be amazed
By art, to laugh in the face of art. To paint:
The last refuge, last thread, last breath.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.