Art Failed Me
art failed me.
i held so many high hopes for art
that when i finally reached the top of art’s slope
i realized that i was climbing a shaky mountain,
not a solid volcano waiting
i was entering an empty house of dominoes
begging to be provoked.
i loved art,
but it failed me,
forced me to become more than
a spectator and practitioner
and tricked me into being
an indentured servant/slave/disgruntled worker/
infatuated with a partner
that ejaculates before i am satisfied.
art failed me because it does not produce
unless i get off my caboose
art failed me because it made me cry
the last time i was so inspired at what i saw
that i not only asked “Why?”
but “What can I do?”
art failed me because it stepped into my life
right when i had gotten chummy with the idea
just as i walked into the tattoo parlor
ready to ink the word “Normal” on my skin,
art busted in
and picked for me an indecipherable,
permanent symbol instead.
art failed me because it pointed out
the specks of dust in a seemingly perfect,
dared me to look in the eyes of people i’d rather ignore;
invited me to evaluate the very essence of my being
and be honest with my scoring;
summoned me to settle the score with myself;
instructed me to know myself
and walk with that knowledge.
i wanted to float in ignorance,
swim in the bliss that comes when one is so content
that “more” is not even a fantasy,
but something to be feared.
but art failed me.
and for that,
i am strangely