The Artist (Vitiated)
A.S. Coomer
The man is capable of
beauty
I’ve seen it
He’s got a hand that can
sing;
gives voice to the
smallest detail
depth to a shallow,
static medium
He used to work in the
comics
I remember towering
dinosaurs
& crisp printed
pages
Now he designs
headstones
I shit you not
& the death involved
is symbolic
There’s art there but
with it a cold,
creeping
A nod to the bygone
years of color and flash
warmth
And, yeah, he still
makes art
on the side
but instead of spreading
that love
that beauty,
that way of
understanding & interpreting
the tangles of life
& love & community
he likes to get on the
internet
& spew such tired
tirades
senseless
misappropriations of fact & rationality,
and, of course,
#fakenews
Word is the president is
looking to put on a Grand Military Parade
& this doesn’t sound
like something a batshit, wannabe tyrant
with failing support and
crumbling control would do at all,
does it?
I made this comment, on
the internet,
&, you guessed it,
the man had to chime in
Said the country would
parade honest FBI officials down the streets of the capital too,
if there were any
Jesus, I thought.
This man can make Art.
He can bring to life whatever he can conjure up
I’ve seen his work in
person,
photos never really do justice do they?
I’ve seen the clarity
he’s capable of
the perfectly straight
lines so far from the tangled mess that he presents politically
& I want to scream
I want to cry
I want to tell him he’s
wasting it
throwing it away for a
faulty ideology
for smallpox blankets
for systematic racism
and rampant sexism
for insults and bullying
and might-makes-right
for Hatred with a
capital H
I felt my heart pounding
in my chest
beating much too
quickly, with far too much force,
& I questioned this.
Why should I care so much?
Why should I let myself
be affected by the hatred reflected by a distorted mirror?
You can’t choose your
family & all that
but family he is.
I told him I was
embarrassed by the things he says
in his internet posts
He told me that I’d be
embarrassed of myself
after I mature
& now I question
maturity
What does it mean to
age? To mature?
Does it come with an
overriding sense of self-importance
the covetous icy heart
of the haves
and the itchy, reaching
hands, veined & wrinkled,
smacking their own
excess away from the have-nots?
I want to tell him that
I believe he’s still capable
of beauty
of love
of understanding
That there’s enough to
go around
That there’s plenty for
us to believe in
That the way forward
isn’t back
That, maybe, just maybe,
despite his age,
he may still not
understand how sharing works
That, maybe, maturity is
knowing that we’re all in this
together
That we only get one
shot at it
and, if so, why not
spend it ALL on kindness?
Why not put it all on
Hope and spin the wheel?
I ended up telling him
that he backed the wrong horse
—the between-the-lines
screaming for a change of perception
a recasting of tired,
guilty eyes
a new mold for seeing
a plea for purging for
all that misguided hatred
I mean, the man’s an
Artist, he’s capable of so much more—
So, yes, I told him he
backed the wrong horse,
a hate-mongering,
orange-tinged horse at that,
a tupeed mane is a mane
nonetheless
& he’s definitely
galloping towards...
something
but I don’t think it’s
anywhere near
Makingamericagreatsville,
USA.
It might be more in the
vicinity of
Oblivion
and can’t we, as
artists, imagine a better future?
--A.S. Coomer
A.S. Coomer is a writer, artist,
and musician. Available novels: Rush’s
Deal (Hammer & Anvil
Books/Lit Fest Press) & The
Fetishists (Grindhouse Press).
Forthcoming novels: The Devil’s
Gospel (The Wild Rose Press)
& Shining the Light (Atlatl Press). His most recent recording, goddamn it anyway, came out 2/16/18. www.ascoomer.com www.ascoomer.bandcamp.com
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