Warhol Wouldn’t Be
There is no trick to art. If I work to make my pieces fit with the familiar I lose my individuality. If I make what is truly me I fear there is no line in which to stand. I must make the work, find the market, live life and die happy; all this with no map and a world filled with people who tell me what to do, but none who can guarantee the outcome. My unwillingness to fight, to look at and feel the ugliness of life is at the core of my impediment.
Except change then accept change
People stand in the cue and I stare,
Lost in contemplation and compliance
I weigh the conflicts and complications.
Is this the method to clear identification?
I think I am better known for the lines I’ve crossed,
The times I press between warm souls
And force myself to the area beyond.
How can I wait my turn for generational stew
When the fruit trees bear life for those who break free
From ruts and rumbles to bite deeply the flesh of the future?
I can’t stand here though I love so many in this line.
I cannot love the line itself.
I must step through, breathe,
Stretch my legs and mind.
Take leave of grids and locks
Living a lonelier but healthier life
All caused by a change in direction.