Heart of an artist, filled with pictures;
paintings, poems, songs and cries of repudiation.
“Don’t let the heathens near the temple!”
The cry is heard, but it’s already been sold.
The Artist as the grocery clerk, the bell hop,
the industrial labourer,
but never the Creator.
“Fuck those sensitive sons of bitches!
We’ll show them what we do to their kind!”
As I apply for a job at the local 7-11,
I tell them I am a Writer
and am sent away at a run.
Gunfire mingled with curses and cries of
“Get him! Kill the Artist!”
I never asked to see the beauty of this world.
HG – 1995-2000