an artist
matty doesn’t like
to be called an artist
don’t call me that! he shouts
markers in hand
a page full of rockets
and robots and monsters
the other kids say
but you are an artist
looking down at their lackluster flowers
and dogs and cats and flaming suns
and other scrawled banalities
matty says, stop it!
like they’re calling him fat
or a geek or a loser
i’m not an artist!
even the adults get into the act
oh, but look how good your rocket looks!
look at how real the airplane is
adults who have squandered their lives
in public schools, in colleges, in traffic
in conversations that are circular and go nowhere
at jobs that have belittled and bedeviled them
at every turn
who waste days online in social networks
or buying things that they don’t need
just to satiate the hunger of a failed existence
adults who would stone an artist
above the age of eighteen just for sport
because all beauty has been sucked out of them
you are an artist! they tell matty
much to his chagrin
pestering him about his talent
about having to do something
with his talent
until he slams down the marker
tosses the crayolas in a pile
rips up his latest masterpiece
and throws it in the trash
before storming off into the afternoon
because matty already knows
that people are liars
he knows what a load of horseshit
being called an artist in america
really is.
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