Monday, September 21, 2009

The Glad Attitude

You fail to see that all art is vain, and the artisan vainest of all,
unless he stays anonymous or hides by a plumed name, then vanes
can't see the rain inside, there is only the glide of fortitude hiding,
a phoenix's swoon to vague borrowing, sorrowing, careening to ohs.

Yet you fail to see that all art is ownerless, and the artisan a slave,
even as he stays eponymous or arrives on a Moses cane, waning
soon to be not the bane inside him, but the boon to glad attitudes
in helixes crooning to big arrowings, narrowing, caroming off arghs.

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