The Heidelberg Project.

when art comes humping to claw at you.

 

 

I'll admit that I don't fully understand art.

I'll admit it because I want debris to sing,

junk to be word envy and lusting. I, in my

own crazed epicure and fume,

 

want for old discarded-ness to happen. Like

finding the brass fittings of a sunken slave ship

and calling it beautiful or the agonist cheeks

of a ten thousand year old worrier

 

laying bare on the earths surface without digging.

Without having to roll away the giant pillar or dig

through the plunder of spirit and of Gods. I get it

because  it was (is) made fresh each morning

 

like donuts, or poetry, or slime

or confessionals. That art is, above all, a brilliance

that only the artist, wonderful and old,

pullsoutofhisassofpuzzleandallegory

and presents

 

then drinks down it's poison of lust and secrecy. Eric Dolphy

died sober and diabetic. Coltrane's liver gave in

to intellectual heft and the blues. Miles died centuries

before he actually did. They always show those before-smack-pictures

of Lady Day, not the ones you want to notice.

 

Not the ones that make you sick to see.