Art

Art is art, man.

A beautiful bullshit

That makes us feel

Like we are something

More than

Smoked cigarettes in laundromats

Or holes in clothes we refuse to get rid of.

Art is art, man.

A medium that makes us

Superior to a world that hates,

That cries.

Because when we cry

It is tangible-

Laced with beauty, with gold dust.

Art lets you live beyond yourself

Beyond the tears

Beyond the laundromat

Beyond the cheated on husbands

And three dollar gold fish.

We convince ourselves

Our souls can be moved.

We convince ourselves

We have souls to be moved.

Art is

Murky water and a pastel sunset.

Art is

The out of tune guitar in a pretentious coffee shop.

Art is

The tooth brush down the dancer’s throat.

Art is art, man.

And until you’ve convinced me

That the world isn’t beautiful-

Until you’ve convinced me

There are no more stories to tell-

That architecture and Joni Mitchell aren’t reason enough to

Stay alive

I will call myself Artist,

Butterflying by every upturned penny,

Every street performer,

Every purple sunrise.

There are two universes-

One for the alive and one for the living,

And if I can make you feel something,

Anything at all,

I think you know which universe

You belong to.