poem of the day 05.26.11

making my kind of art
at the museo reina sofia

yes
yes
i think
that juan gris is fine
and guernica is beyond words
i’ve finally accepted
that picasso is my favorite
and cubism has always been
where it’s at

i promise not
to forget joan miro

van gogh be damned

but right now
i’m making my kind of art
at the museo reina sofia
beer shits and vomit
in the second floor bathroom
from a hot hangover day
in the spanish sun

yes
yes
i’m hurling out
jamon y queso
farting out pints of mahou
moving fast from commode to urinal
with the rapidity of pollock
as men piss
and talk jose gutierrez solana
trying their best not to interfere
with my art

i call myself
a writer i tell them
wanted to be an actor
or comedian
in my youth
maybe a baseball player
but this mess here in the toilet
these bits and pieces
in my beard
that immortal masterpiece
stinking in the sink

gentlemen
that’s what i really do best

the men grunt
at me
frown
press hard for soap
they don’t understand art
i think
dedication to
a singular craft
stamina
nerve
putting all of your eggs
in one basket

they can only talk about dali
and the sculpture of julio gonzalez

they don’t see
the genius wobbling there
suffering in front of them
shirt streaked with puke
face red
hair sweat-soaked
armpits saturated
eyes watery
crushed pork pie hat
in my ghost white
and shaky hands

no one ever does

it’s amazing that i haven’t stopped
by now

left the art world behind

taken up quilting
gone into seclusion
and called it a day.