Future of Art

Because I once saw futures
on my darkened cerebellum
I tattooed on it a corvette
ruling the parking lot
driving slowly and acutely
surveying the shape-taking
dance of lovely autos
rounding up for a wreck.

As a clerk for an old businessman
I was to sweep up the shavings
off his floor of mutterings
then glue them without glue
seamlessly and unicolored
into principles with the roundness
and reflective finish of
christmas tree ornaments.

After using and getting back
strong language about change
in this town over decades
I had to yell wait and tell me
how any of my facts fail?
My father sputtered, ‘facts.’
Then he pulled his tentacles back
to nineteen fifty.

Without arguing I allowed them
to cut off my legs, bones full
of unexpected directionality
and pre-emptively replace them
with two-by-fours like those
stilts from childhood turning
simply walking into
not falling on your head.

All this push culminates
this afternoon at the art gallery
where every blank wall waiting
reaches across into the stacks
of boxes behind my eyeballs
where all my uncatalogued images
were pulled out, construed, colorized,
framed, hung, lit up, priced,
sold, paid for by collectors and
archived to wait
for the future.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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