Is the creative spark
to push individuality
non-conformity into unity
in merely a few words, images
that explain everything
but says nothing
beyond the ordinary
experiences of men, women
who fight to survive
against wars, economic collapses
bosses, big and small,
and lovers scorned
who see anger at every turn
and strive to stifle, squash
any and every attempt
at one person’s attempt to explain
pain, love, brutality, compassion
in the corner of one’s mind.

So the next time you see
a homeless, hobo, bum
climb out of a dumpster
ten yards away from a work of art
by a harborside dock
in my hometown
– like the ten foot tall black hand
holding a multicolored fish called Wanda
in its vice-like grip –
open your wallet, pull out a Jackson
for his/her lunatic rantings of ownership
of art such as this
just may be true . . .
. . . and the artist
may be me.