Friday, February 26, 2016

poem of the day 02.26.16

all apologies vincent smith

i ask my wife how he does that
she says, it’s sand
red paint and sand
moves her hand like
she’s rubbing it over the grainy canvas
like jean dubuffet , she says
all these years and i still know nothing about art
we walk around the small room
looking at the work
four large canvases on four white walls
the grainy redpaintsand makes tenement walls
distorted african faces looking out of windows
vincent smith was basquiat before basquiat
i announce
suddenly enlightened
i also know where to find the apartment
where the heroin took jean-michel too soon
i think we’ll go there next
when suddenly there’s a clatter in the quiet gallery
the redpainflesh gush of fat tourist faces
filling up the small room
taking up seats on window sills
exasperated and worn-out
from walking one new york block
they text and take pictures of trump tower across the street
fifth avenue like a parade route of mammon
glance at the paintings
snap a bored shot for posterity
all these years and america still knows nothing about art
all apologies vincent smith
for the rude interruption upon our time
my wife and i try to get in a few more glances
redpaintsand and this edvard munch motif by way of harlem
but we’re being backed into a corner
by the hungry wolves of capitalism
as the room continues to fill up
a flood water of knock-off louis v bags
and t-shirts that falsely declare “i love ny”
i look at my wife
squeeze her hand
tell her i want to go home and get drunk
i tell her these tourists, baby
they make me want to scream

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